A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn
by Somogyi
Summary: Longtime friends Jean Grey Summers and Bobby Drake go shopping. But, as is often the case in the lives of the XMen, their peaceful afternoon is interrupted by tragedy. The team is then left to pick up the pieces.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn

**Author:** Somogyi

**Email:** Sure, just please ask first.

**Rating: **T for language

**Disclaimer:** Phoenix, Iceman and other X-Men depicted within are property of Marvel Entertainment. Characters are used without permission. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit is being made. Dr. Foxx and Isabella are original creations and may not be used without the author's permission. "Crash and Burn" is by Darren Haynes and Daniel Jones of Savage Garden, and can be found on their CD "Affirmation." Complete lyrics can be found at the end of the story.

**Summary:** Longtime friends Jean Grey-Summers and Bobby Drake go shopping. But, as is often the case in the lives of the X-Men, their peaceful afternoon is interrupted by tragedy. The team is then left to pick up the pieces.

**Author's Notes:** I'd like to thank Kelley and Mirage for the awesome beta. As always, you ladies keep my on my toes; you help me to smooth all the rough edges to create a wonderfully polished final product. Thank you for you patience and your insight.

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn by Somogyi**

_Let me be the one you call _

_If you jump I'll break your fall _

_Lift you up and fly away with you into the night _

_If you need to fall apart I can mend a broken heart _

_If you need to crash then crash and burn _

_You're not alone_

**Chapter 1**

"Thanks for agreeing to come with me, Jeanie," Bobby said as he pulled into the parking space, put the car in park, and cut the engine.

"It's no problem," she replied, unfastening her seatbelt. "You seemed like you really needed the moral support."

"Yeah," he sighed, getting out of the car and walking around to the other side to open the passenger side door. "I really appreciate it."

Jean looked up at him and smiled. "Ever the gentleman, Bobby," she said, placing her hand in his and allowing him to help her out of the car. "I'm just so flattered you asked for my advice."

"Well, I'm horrible at picking out these sorts of things. And God only knows what I'd end up with if I brought Hank with me. But I definitely trust your judgment. You've got good taste. With your help, I just may pull this off."

"Such pessimism, Mr. Drake. You've got to go into this with a positive mental attitude."

He looked at her in disbelief. "I still can't believe you enjoy this kind of thing."

"I never pass up the opportunity to go shopping. C'mon, Bobby, this is going to be fun," she assured him.

"You say that now, but wait until we've hit a few places."

"You underestimate my endurance, and my resolve. This type of challenge I never back down from. We have a mission, and we will succeed."

Bobby eyed her warily. "Scott subjecting you to some of those self-affirmation tapes again?"

Ignoring his remark, Jean took his arm and pulled him toward the end of the parking lot and the nearest entrance to the mall. They had only gotten a few yards inside when Bobby suddenly stopped short. Looking up at the seemingly endless row of storefronts, he swallowed convulsively. He suddenly felt way out of his league. He had no idea of where to even begin.

He felt Jean squeeze his arm reassuringly. "C'mon, let's start with a department store."

"Which one?"

"Macy's is the closest. Let's go there."

"You sure you know what you're doing?" he asked as they took a right and made their way to the store entrance.

"Bobby Drake, did you ask for my help or not?"

"Sorry, Jeanie. It was a moment of weakness. I have complete faith in you and your ability to help me find the perfect birthday gift for my mom."

She smiled at him. "See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"I guess. Ask me again in a few hours. That is, if I manage to survive this experience."

They entered the store, almost managing to avoid the saleswoman with the perfume samples. Almost being the operative word.

"Care to try Desire, our latest scent?" a young woman in a smart suit and way too much make-up asked Jean.

"No, thank y-"

"Sure," Bobby replied, accepting the proffered card and offering the woman a heart-stopping grin that actually made her blush.

Jean watched impatiently as he lifted the card to his nose and inhaled. She had to stifle a laugh as he fought to keep from coughing.

"Do you like it?" the woman asked him.

"It's . . . uh . . . quite powerful."

"Well, it's on sale if you'd like to purchase a bottle today."

"We'll think about it. Thanks."

"My pleasure," the woman replied, beaming at him, as he waved good-bye.

"You finished charming the ladies, Casanova?" Jean asked with mock impatience as Bobby hurried to catch up to her.

"You're not the only one who can multi-task, you know," he said, shaking the card in the air to emphasize his point.

"Get rid of that thing, will ya?" Jean asked, waving her hand in front of her face to clear the air.

"What, it doesn't make you Desire me?" Bobby asked, waggling his eyebrows.

"Well, maybe if I wasn't a happily married woman. . . ."

"What's a happy marriage got to do with having a little fun?" he teased.

"How about an insanely jealous husband who can pulverize you with a mere look?"

Bobby thought about that a moment. "Yep, that's certainly a mood-killer." He tossed the card into a trashcan that they passed. "Whatever happened to the saleswomen who sprayed you with perfume as you entered the store?"

"You didn't hear? They got Logan right in the eyes with Vanilla Lace, and then there was hell to pay."

They laughed. Then Bobby once again grew somber. "So, uh, where do we start?"

Jean looked around. "Hmm. . . ."

He followed her gaze to the ladies' clothing section. "Uh uh, no way no how. I don't even know my mom's sizes. Besides, I want something more personal than a blouse or a dress."

"Okay." Jean looked past the clothing section and began to walk. "What about a nice handbag?" she suggested, heading for the accessories.

"A purse?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, you could get a nice Prada, Coach, or Gucci bag." Seeing the way his eyes bugged out, she quickly added, "Or something like Nine West, if that's more in your price range." She began to look through the racks of leather bags.

"I don't think so, Jeanie. My mom's the type of woman who's happy to just shove all she can in her purse. I don't think she's into this designer stuff."

"Okay," Jean fingered the strap of a stylish Gucci pocketbook with a sigh before moving on.

Hmm, mental note to self: make Scott a gift suggestion for Jean's next birthday. For a moment, he lost sight of her amongst the accessories. "Jeanie!" he called. "Where'd ya go?"

"How about a hat?" she asked, suddenly darting out from between two displays, a long-brimmed black sunhat placed at a chic angle on her head.

Bobby smiled. "I think that one's more your style than my mom's." He reached to the side and put on an argyle driving cap. "What'cha think?"

Disappearing down an aisle, she called back, "Too 'Driving Miss Daisy,' Grandpa!"

"I suppose you can do better?"

"How about this?" She sauntered over to him, hands on hips, wearing a red pillbox hat with a sheer veil pulled down over her eyes.

"You misplaced your cigarette holder, Greta," he replied, adjusting his own hat.

Jean took a good look at him-black beret placed jauntily on his head, matching scarf, and dark sunglasses-and laughed. "I know what you can get your mom, man. Tickets to a blues club!"

"Humph," he replied, ducking back down an aisle.

They both returned at the same time-Jean in a purple hat whose brim was pushed up and adorned with several large artificial flowers-and Bobby in the same style, only in yellow. They both broke out into hearty laughter.

"I think it's time to move on," Jean said, returning her hat to the rack.

"I agree," Bobby said, replacing his as well.

"Although that last one really was you, Bobby."

"Yeah, maybe I should get it to match my Easter outfit."

Smiling, Jean headed toward the center of the store and the glass showcases. "There's always perfume."

He looked at her skeptically. "What, you mean Desire?" he asked, the name a breathy whisper on his lips.

Jean tilted her head back, wrist to forehead. "Please, Mr. Drake, you shall make me swoon."

"Not exactly the effect I'm going for with my mom."

"Touché. Well, there are plenty of scents to choose from."

Bobby followed her sweeping gesture towards the many display cases, behind each of which stood at least one or two saleswomen. He suddenly felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. "You know, Jeanie, my mom's been wearing the same perfume for as long as I can remember. It's, you know, a scent I just associate with her. It's . . . mom." He shrugged.

"You could get her a bottle of that."

"Yeah, but that's not very personal. Besides . . ." he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and studied his sneakers. "I, uhm, I'm not even sure of the name."

"Oh. Well, do you know what the bottle looks like?"

He shook his head.

"Well, you could smell around a bit at the different samples."

The prospect of sniffing over a dozen perfume samples made his stomach lurch. "Ixnay on the erfumepay."

"Kay-oh-ay," Jean replied with a nod. "There's always make-up."

Together, they began to wander among the various displays: Estee Lauder, Ralph Lauren, Clinique, L'Oreal. . . . Jesus, how many different brands were there? he wondered.

He wandered up to one counter that boasted 'The hippest new shades for the season.' He stared in bewilderment at the palate of colors offered.

"See something you like?" the young woman behind the counter asked. She had blonde hair that was obviously not her natural color, her eyelids sparkled more than most diamonds, and her lips were a color that would whet Dracula's appetite. Resting her elbows in front of her, she leaned forward, giving him a perfect view of her ample cleavage peaking out from her partially unbuttoned blouse.

"Uhm, I was just looking for a gift."

"Girlfriend?" the woman asked carefully.

"No, actually. My mother. It's her birthday-"

"Oh!" she cried, her face lighting up. "I know just the thing to help her feel young again!" She bent down to slide open the back door to the display case, stealing a glance at Bobby from below lowered lashes-from their unnatural length, obviously false ones. She reached inside, picked up a rectangular-shaped black compact, and brought it up to the counter. "This is the latest in eyewear."

Eyewear? I thought sunglasses were eyewear? What the heck has this girl been smoking?

She opened up the case, revealing several squares of eye shadow in various shades of blue. "This can be complemented nicely with eyeliner number 603, Ocean Breeze-" she somehow managed to produce the appropriate pencil- "and adorned with our best-selling product, Sparkling Diamonds-" She pointed to her own closed eyes with a flourish.

"Uhm . . . very pretty."

"Ya think? Thanks!" she replied with a giggle. "So can I wrap a set up for you?"

"Uh . . . I'm not sure this is my mom's style. . . ."

"Find something?" Jean asked, coming to stand next to Bobby. Touching his arm, she bent down to look at the palate on the counter. "Oh. This is . . . interesting."

"Perhaps your girlfriend would also be interested," the saleswoman suggested to Bobby.

"I don't think it's my friend's style either," he replied with a gracious smile. "Do you have anything a little different?"

"Sure. Let me get you something from over here," she said, replacing the eye shadow and heading for a different counter.

"Hopefully something from this decade," Bobby muttered to Jean under his breath.

"Hush! Haven't you heard that retro is back?"

"Yeah, well, maybe I should get her a pair of bell-bottoms to go with the eye-shadow." He suddenly cringed at the thought of his mother in hip-hugger jeans.

"How about this?" the woman asked, producing a montage of lip glosses. They ranged from hot pink to rust orange to a reddish-brown so dark it was nearly black.

"Ooo, how gothic," he said, picking up the latter.

"I'm sure your dad would love that one," Jean said, perusing the display. "What about this one?" She selected a more traditional shade of red.

Bobby looked at her and thought very hard. Five bucks says I can guess the name of that shade.

Jean's eyebrows rose as she obviously picked up his thought projection. You're on.

I guess . . . 'Blow Job Red'.

Bobby! Though her thoughts were indignant, a bark of laughter escaped her lips.

What? I see that shade, that's the first thing that comes to my mind.

"What's so funny?" the saleswoman asked them, oblivious to the telepathic exchange.

"Nothing," Jean replied, biting her lip to control her laughter. She quickly replaced the lipstick in the display. "Thank you, but I think we're going to keep on looking. Come on, Bobby," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the counter.

"So was I right?" he asked her.

"I don't know. I didn't look," she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

"What? But why? We had a bet!" He looked down at her. "Jeanie . . . you're blushing."

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. Your face almost matches your hair-and that lipstick."

She went even darker, if such a thing were possible.

"Please don't tell me you're that easily offended. You never used to be."

"It's not that."

"Well, what then?"

She hesitated.

He looked at her expectantly.

"It's just. . . ." She swallowed, still unable to meet his eyes. "I have that same shade of lipstick at home." And with that, she increased her step to browse at another display.

For a moment, Bobby stood where he was, dumbfounded. It took a while for realization to hit. Well, I'll say one thing . . . Scott is one lucky man.

I heard that! Jean snapped.

Chuckling, her hurried to catch up to her. She was staring down at several rows of nail polish-in every color of the rainbow, and then some.

"I just don't get it."

"I bought it on a whim . . . to go with a new red dress."

His brow furrowed. "Huh? Oh, I'm not talking about the lipstick. I've moved on." Though obviously you have not-conjuring up some good memories?

I choose not to dignify that with a response, thank you very much.

Second mental note to self: get Scott drunk and ask him about the night you wore a new red dress.

Bobby, if you don't behave, so help me, I'll-

"As I was saying, I just don't understand all these shades of nail polish."

"What's there not to get?"

"Well, take a look at some of these: black, orange, blue, purple . . . hell, even green!"

"And what's wrong with green?"

"Well, just look at this!" he declared, picking up a bottle of forest green polish. "You put this on, you'd look like you have moss growing from your fingertips."

"Well, I happen to like green. It matches my eyes. Or so Scott tells me."

"But . . . forest green!" he asked in wonder, gesturing with the bottle.

"Well, maybe not that exact shade. A more subtle one."

"More subtle? How can green be subtle? It's . . . well, green!"

"For your information, Mr. Drake, green can compliment one's eyes, and one's dress, quite nicely. I like it. In fact . . . I'm wearing it right now."

Bobby's brows knitted in confusion. He reached for one of Jean's hands, looked down at her nails. "Wow, I didn't realize they started making invisible green nail polish. I should get some for my mom!"

She scowled at him. "Not on my hands, silly!"

"Then where?"

Holding onto his arm for support, she slipped her foot out of her shoe. As Bobby followed her gaze and looked down at the floor, she wiggled her toes at him from beneath her sheer panty hose. They were, in fact, adorned with green nail polish. Though, to Jean's credit, it was more like a mint green.

"Jeanie! How could you?"

"What? Don't you like it? I think it's pretty. It matches this nice floral-print dress I have."

Hr shook his head disappointedly.

"I don't care what you think, I like it."

"Suit yourself. If you want to look like you've got toenail fungus. . . ."

"Hey, I can't help it if you're seriously lacking in taste. For your information, Jubilee gave it to me-the polish, not the dress. And if she doesn't have her finger on the pulse of hip and trendy, I don't know who would."

He sighed. This was obviously an argument he was destined to lose. "Okay, okay. You win. Your polish is tres cool. Now, can we please find a gift for my mom? I don't think this make-up thing is panning out."

"On that matter, we agree."

"What, then? Please don't say we have to venture out into the mall proper."

"Don't give up hope yet. We still haven't exhausted every possibility in here."

"No linens, electronics, or china. No furniture either."

Jean gazed around, doing a slow three-sixty. She stopped suddenly. "I've got it!"

"What? What is it?"

"C'mon, sunlight's burning!" Grabbing his arm, she practically dragged him across the store to another section.

As they entered the new department, Bobby realized that she just might have been struck with divine inspiration.

"Jeanie, you're a genius!"

"I know."

"Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

"I don't know."

"My gosh, I'm sure we can find something perfect!"

"Don't jinx us just yet."

"No, no, you're right. But where should we start?"

"Hmm." She thought a moment. "How about fine gems?" Before he had a chance to reply, she took his hand and pulled him toward a nearby jewelry counter. "Does your mom prefer gold or silver?"

"Uhm, gold. I think."

"You think?"

"Well, she doesn't wear much jewelry."

"What color is her wedding band?"

"Uhm . . . gold?" Catching sight of her scowling face, he gulped. "Gold," he repeated more confidently. "Yeah, it's gold. I'm sure of it."

"Does she like necklaces? Bracelets?"

"I guess. I don't know. She doesn't really wear either."

"Are her ears pierced?"

"Yeah."

"Studs or danglies?"

"Huh?"

"Does she wear studs-you know, things like pearls that are attached directly to a post-or does she prefer a style that hangs down past her earlobes?"

Bobby thought for a moment. "Uhm, studs, I think. I've mainly see her wear a pair of pearl earrings, now that you mention it."

"Well, then, I think it's time we expanded her horizons," Jean said, fingers lightly glazing across a glass countertop as she perused its contents.

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well, how about one of these?" she suggested, pointing to a particular display.

Bobby walked over to where she indicated, crouching down for a better look. "Wow. Those are awfully pretty."

"Pretty? Pretty? Bobby, those are downright beautiful! That pair in particular-" she gestured to the earrings that had caught her eye- "are gorgeous!"

"And they're on sale for fifty percent off," said a dapper, gray-haired man in a navy suit as he approached them from behind the counter.

Bobby looked at Jean and smiled. You thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Red?

Jackpot?

Jackpot. He looked up at the salesman. "Do you take American Express?"

**End Chapter 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 2**

"Thank you once again, Jeanie, for all of your help today." Almost two hours later, she and Bobby were finally heading back to the parking lot. Their mission had been successfully accomplished now that a small velvet box containing a pair of diamond stud earrings was safely tucked away in Bobby's coat pocket.

"Well, thank you for treating me to lunch," Jean replied.

"Hey, no prob. You'd think it was going out of style, the way you packed it away," he teased.

"I skipped breakfast. Besides, I always work up a monstrous appetite shopping."

"Well, you must burn off a lot of calories looking for the latest sales. Because if you always eat like that when you shop, I don't know how else you maintain that incredible figure of yours."

"Flattery will get you almost anywhere, Mr. Drake," she said with a smile as she slipped her arm through his.

"Oh, really? Will it get you to wear that red lipstick for me?"

She punched him in the arm. "Remember, Bobby? Jealous husband? Deadly gaze?"

"Oh yeah. I almost forgot." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Gonna be winter before we know it."

Jean nodded. "Well, at least we're actually having a decent autumn this year. As opposed to this year's one entire week of spring between winter and summer."

"One would think having a weather goddess around would remedy that matter," he remarked offhandedly.

Jean smiled. "Bobby, you know Ororo can't constantly manipulate weather patterns to suit our personal needs. It would cause havoc to the climate of surrounding areas."

"Says the woman who had an outdoor wedding in Westchester, New York in January."

"That's different. That was-"

"No different than me using my powers to create a little relief during a heat wave," he said, pressing the remote to unlock the car and opening the passenger side for her.

"I don't know if Hank would agree with that, after he dove into a swimming pool full of ice water," Jean countered as she climbed inside.

"Hey, at least he had fur for insulation," Bobby replied, closing the door before walking over to the driver's side and joining her inside.

"So when exactly is your mom's birthday?" Jean asked as she fastened her seatbelt.

"Monday," Bobby replied, securing his own before starting the engine.

She snickered.

"What?"

"Why didn't you wait to the last minute, Bobby?"

"What are you talking about? It's Thursday. This is shopping early for me." Glancing over his shoulder, he backed out of the space and into the aisle. Pausing for only a second or two, he switched from reverse to drive, sending them screeching across the parking lot.

"Bobby!" Jean gripped the dashboard. "Be careful! A little kid could suddenly dart out from between cars."

"Sorry," he muttered, slowing down as they approached the exit. They came to a halt behind several other cars waiting to pay the parking fee. Bobby retrieved his ticket from the visor.

"Here," Jean said, reaching into her purse.

"No, I've got it," Bobby insisted. "You were my guest."

"Free lunch and parking? Remind me to go shopping with you more often."

He lowered his window to pay the parking fee. "No offense, Jeanie-'cause I love spending time with you and all-but if I never see a mall again for the next year, it'll be too soon." He stepped on the accelerator, and they sped down the street.

"Jesus, Bobby, how old are you?" she asked, grasping the handle to her door.

"What? You don't like my driving?"

"Well, I might be able to answer that better if we hadn't left my stomach back in the parking lot. . . ."

"Jean, some of your regular means of transportation are on an SR-71 Blackbird and levitating via telekinesis-not to mention the occasional trip on one of my very own ice slides. How the heck can a little old fashioned driving bother you?" he asked, looking over his shoulder before merging onto the highway.

"Old fashioned is right-as in a 50's drag race. You're an adult, not some greaser adolescent punk that needs to impress a girl or the members of the opposing gang-"

"Geez, are you guys ever going to stop treating me as 'the kid'? I can see why when I was fourteen and you, Scott, and Warren were sixteen and Hank was like twenty going on fifty, 'cause at that age it seems like night and day. Once we hit college, though, I thought you'd have outgrown the big sister act."

"Bobby, no matter how old we are, part of me if going to still see you as that fresh-faced, sweet but oh-so-juvenile kid. We'll be in out eighties, and I'll still think of you as my little brother. As such, I'm always going to worry about you. And therefore, always going to pester you. I can't help it-it's my nature."

"I know, I know. . . .Just like it's in my nature to resist authority."

"Oh, yeah. You're a regular badass." She suppressed a chuckle.

"Is that skepticism I hear?" he asked, switching to the left lane.

"Well, what are you going to do, intimidate the hell out of someone with your witty repertoire?"

"Gee, thanks, Jeanie. Hit a guy below the belt, why don't'cha?"

"Hardly. It's just someone like, say, Remy can pull off the whole Rebel Without a Cause thing, whereas-"

"Without a cause my ass-the man's a former thief for God's sake. And part of his mutant powers is to charm-" He stopped abruptly when he realized that she was laughing. "What? What'd I say?"

"There's no need to be jealous, Bobby. Not all ladies go for the bad boy type. Look at me, for instance. Scott is practically the polar opposite."

"Yeah, well, what about the whole Logan thing?"

If almost anyone else had brought up that subject, Jean would have taken offense. But because it was Bobby-and because she had known him for so long-she did not even bat an eye at the suggestion. "Flirtation. A harmless attraction. I am a woman, after all. I still like to look. But Scott's the one I married. He's the one I love, the one whom I want to spend the rest of my life with."

"So what's your point? That what they say about nice guys finishing last isn't always necessarily true?"

"Regarding affairs of the heart, yes. In the case of public perception of super powered mutants, sadly no." She tried to make the comment light-hearted, but her reach at humor fell flat. Jean sighed. "Is that what this all boils down to? Are you worried about finding 'the one'?"

"Where the hell did that come from? You certainly weren't reading my mind, because that was the farthest thing from it."

"Defensive, aren't we?"

He ignored her, and continued to voice his scorn. "I know what you must be thinking: 'Bobby's way too immature. Maybe if he stopped kidding around all the time, he could actually maintain a relationship'."

"Bobby-"

" 'If he actually started acting his age, maybe women would take him seriously'."

"No, Bobby, that's not what I'm saying at all."

"Well, what then?"

"What I was going to say was that many women find a sense of humor quite attractive. I'm only a sample size of one, but I like to laugh. I find it relaxing, calming. And that's how people in a relationship should feel when they're together, don't you think?"

He felt suddenly sheepish for over-reacting and jumping down her throat. "Uh, yeah, I guess," he muttered softly.

She reached to place her hand on his arm. "Don't sell yourself short, Bobby. You're a wonderful friend. You're a kind, caring man. You don't need a fast car or a tough attitude to make people notice you, let alone like you. Just be yourself. Believe me, the right woman will come along and appreciate you for who you are."

He could not help but smile. "You just saying that as my 'big sis'?" he asked, sparing a glance over at her.

"Bobby, when have you ever known me to pay someone lip service?" she asked, a hint of disdain in her voice.

Catching sight of her eyes, of the stark sincerity of her expression, he knew that she was being perfectly earnest. In all the years that he had known her-ever since they were kids, really-Bobby had trusted Jean's judgment, respected her opinions; he valued them highly, in fact. For some reason, silly as it may be, knowing that she felt so strongly about him, hearing her speak such heartfelt praise aloud, made him feel really good about himself.

Geez, Drake, is your ego that fragile that you need your friends to bolster it? Talk about pathetic. . . .

Feeling her give his arm a gentle squeeze, he looked over at her. She was smiling encouragingly, a gesture that lit up her entire face. He could not help but grin back. "Thanks, Jeanie."

She nodded. Then, unexpectedly, the smile faded from her face. "Bobby. . . ."

"Yeah?" he asked, eyes returning to the road.

At the same moment he saw another car completely stopped in their path, its brake lights not even on, he heard her shout "Look out!"

"What the hell?" he wondered aloud. There had been no one else in front of them for the past several miles. His lane had been clear the last time he had looked at the road mere seconds earlier.

"Shit!" Bobby cut the wheel sharply to the right in an attempt to avoid the stopped vehicle. Almost immediately, they started to skid. "Goddammit!" He slammed on the brakes, but it did no good. He lost control of the car, and they continued to spin. "Hold on!" he shouted, fighting desperately to regain handling.

"Jeanie, can you grab-?" he started to ask her.

Before he could finish the thought, their turning came to an abrupt halt as they collided with the concrete highway divider. The impact was jarring, and Bobby felt his jaw snap shut with an audible smack a moment before the airbags dispensed, pushing him backwards with almost as much intensity as the initial collision. Then everything went black.

Bobby awoke to the smell of smoke. It took him a moment to realize where he was, what had happened. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He tried pushing the airbag out of his face, off of his chest. The sudden movement made him dizzy, and there was a dull ache in the back of his skull. The interior of the car was filled with thick smoke, and he started to cough. He looked to his right, could barely make out the outline of his companion. She was slumped forward onto the passenger-side airbag, her hair falling over her face.

"Jeanie?" he called. "Can you hear me? Jeanie!" He tried shaking her, but she did not respond. She must be unconscious. "Gotta get you out of here," he muttered in between coughs.

He reached to unbuckle his seat belt, but recoiled with a yelp. The metal was damned hot. He pointed a finger and iced it, then grabbed it in his hand, shattering it. He tried to reach for Jean, but found that the airbags were in his way. "Goddammit!" Looked like he was going to have to do things the hard way.

Pushing open the door, he climbed outside. Getting to his feet left him with a head rush, and he had to lean on the car door to keep from puking or passing out. As he forced air into his lungs, he caught wind of the unmistakable odor of gasoline.

"Fuck. . . !"He looked up at the front of the car, and saw the flicker of flames lapping up from the edges of the hood. "Fuck fuck fuck!" He had to move fast.

He became suddenly aware of his heart pounding against his ribcage, the way his breathing became quick and shallow. Despite how quickly he tried to act, time seemed to now be moving in slow motion. He attempted to rush around the front of the car, holding onto it for support, nearly falling several times in the process. He had just rounded the bumper and when there was a small bang like a mini-explosion. It rocked the car, and made him fall flat on his ass, mud splattering into his face. He used a hand to wipe it out of his eyes. What he saw next when he glanced up at the car made his stomach drop.

In addition to the thick, black smoke, there were now orange-yellow flames in the car. Some appeared to be burning right in the area of the passenger side.

"Oh God! Jeanie! No!"

Fighting vertigo, he forced himself to his feet, icing up in the process. They exertion left him suddenly weak, but he fought to stay upright, focusing his mind-his will-on one single goal. As he ran towards the car, he projected mist and ice in the door's direction. With a downward thrust of his elbow, the door shattered, giving him a clear view of Jean.

She was on fire.

Tamping down panic and exhaustion, he was fueled by pure adrenaline alone. Once again, he cast a thick fog-like mist, along with snow and ice, onto her body, enveloping her in a veritable ice cocoon. The casing seemed to do the trick, and put out the flames. There was an audible hiss and more smoke filled the car, nearly obstructing his view of her.

Wordlessly, he picked her up in his arms-God, she was so hot, even covered in a thin layer of ice. Holding her against him, he backed away from the car. For a moment, he considered putting the freeze on the entire vehicle. But the rush was already fading, and he feared he did not have the strength to complete the task, let alone protect Jean. His only thought at that moment was to get her the hell out of there. He had to get her to safety at all costs.

He turned around, trying to maintain his balance with the new added load. He had gotten them about fifteen feet away when the real explosion occurred. The force of the blast sent them flying another ten feet or so. In that split second, he tried to roll to absorb most of the impact himself. The force of their landing sent her flying from his arms, skidding across the pavement.

He tried to raise himself, but to no avail. He had no strength left. As his concentration faltered, he reverted to human form.

For the second time in five minutes, the world went black for Bobby Drake.

**End Chapter 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 3**

"Doctor, he's coming 'round."

Bobby heard the sound of voices around him mixing with metallic clatter, hissing, and the beeping of machinery. Something smelled like alcohol-the antiseptic kind. Where was he?

He was laying down flat on his back, that much he could tell. He reached his left hand to his side, felt the scratchy cotton of a sheet on a thin mattress, a slightly thicker blanket covering him. As his hand moved further to the side, he felt the coolness of metal. Moving his fingers, he was able to wrap them around a bar that was a few inches above and parallel to the mattress.

He realized that something was on his index finger, lightly pinching it. When he attempted to move his other hand to remove the object, he felt a stinging in his right inner forearm just below the crook of his elbow. It felt like a needle, and was accompanied by a sharp tug on the nearby hair, like when you start to remove a band-aid.

Where the hell was he, and what was being done to him? What enemy had managed to capture him, and what sort of sick tests or means of torture were they attempting?

His head was pounding fit to burst-and the pain was focused right behind his eyelids. Slowly, reluctantly, he forced them to open. All he could make out was the beige of a ceiling and fluorescent lights. Blinking, he tried to will the world to come into view.

"Dr. Foxx, he just opened his eyes."

Doctor? Did that mean. . . ? Was he not a prisoner? Could he be in a hospital?

Suddenly, he was looking up at the blurry oval of a face. The person was Caucasian, with dark hair. Beyond that, he could not even tell if it was a man or a woman.

"Mr. Drake, can you hear me?" came a woman's voice. He felt a cool hand on his brow.

"Y-yeah," he croaked before erupting into a coughing fit. His throat was incredibly dry. "Th-thirsty. . . ."

"In a minute. I need to examine you first."

Before Bobby could utter another word, a bright light blinded him.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell-!" He tried to raise his hand to protect his eyes.

"Easy, sir," came a second woman's voice as he felt a pair of warm hands gently lower his arm back to his side. "Just let Dr. Foxx do what she needs to."

Once again, Bobby was assailed with an intense light focused right over his eyes. It made his head ache ten times worse.

"PLRs intact-both direct and consensual," he heard the first voice say, the one that apparently belonged to Dr. Foxx. Once more, he felt a cool touch on his forehead. It was oddly comforting despite the throbbing inside his skull. "Mr. Drake, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"This many," Bobby said, raising his right arm and flipping her the bird. "Where the hell do you get off trying to blind me?"

Ignoring his hostility, she forced her expression to remain neutral. "Follow my finger please," she said as she moved it back and forth, watching how well he tracked it. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Thursday. The President is George Bush-the not-so-bright son, not the broccoli-hater dad. We're in Westchester, New York-at least I was before I was brought here. My favorite color is sky blue, my favorite number is three, and I've got an Excedrin headache the size of Mount Rushmore. So instead of torturing me with your Maglight, how about you get me a couple of Tylenol and some water to wash it down and ease my parched throat? There, did I pass your stupid fucking test?"

This time the doctor scowled as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Paula, would you mind getting Mr. Drake two extra-strength Ibuprofen and a cup of water with a straw please?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Foxx," the second voice said. "Be right back." Bobby turned his head and watched as an Asian nurse in crimson scrubs offered him a reassuring smile before heading across the room.

"You sustained a concussion during the accident and remained unconscious for almost an hour. Therefore it was necessary for me to-"

"Accident?" Memories, temporarily forgotten, came flooding back to Bobby. Shopping for his mother's birthday gift. Riding in a car with Jean, seeing another vehicle suddenly stopped in the middle of the highway. Trying to swerve to avoid it, spinning out of control, crashing into the concrete divider. The impact of the air bags. The smell of gasoline and smoke. The heat of flames. Turning to ice form in an attempt to protect himself, and to allow him to free Jean from her seat. Carrying her from the car amidst lapping flames and choking smoke, barely making it in time before a small explosion threw them forward onto the asphalt. Then everything went black until just a few minutes ago.

"Jeanie! Oh shit! Doctor, where's Jeanie? How is she? Was she hurt?" He started to sit up, intent on getting out of bed and finding her, when a sharp pain sliced across his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs.

"Easy, Mr. Drake. You've got some broken ribs. Here, sit back," she said, trying to ease him back down.

Suddenly too weak to argue, Bobby let her help him lay back against the pillow. "Where's Jeanie?" he repeated, holding onto his chest. "Is she okay?"

The poker face fell into place once more. "The woman who was brought in with you was seriously injured in the car fire."

Bobby's mouth felt even drier than it had when he woke up. "H-how serious?"

The doctor licked her lips, and Bobby could tell she was stalling, trying to choose her words carefully.

"Doc?" Bobby prompted. "Please, tell me. . . ."

"She sustained third-degree burns on over fifty percent of her body."

Bobby tried to keep his voice from trembling as he spoke. "Th-Third-degree. . . . Th-that's the most superficial kind, right?"

Sadly, the doctor shook her head. "First degree burns only cause reddening, not even blistering. Third degree burns destroy the entire dermis, sometimes the underlying tissue as well."

"Oh shit." Bobby bit his bottom lip and stared up at the ceiling. "Not Jeanie. Please, God, not Jeanie," he whispered, bringing his right hand up to cover his eyes.

"I'm very sorry," Dr. Foxx said, placing a hand on his other arm.

"C-can I see her?" Bobby asked.

"They're still treating her in one of the trauma rooms. I suppose once they've gotten her stabilized, and moved her to the Burn Unit. . . ."

"Oh God. This can't be happening. . . ." The last words were swallowed by a strangled sob, which elicited another coughing fit. This, in turn, caused a sharp pain to rip across his chest from his fractured ribs. Suddenly Bobby felt it difficult to draw a full breath.

"Easy, Mr. Drake, easy," he heard the doctor say. His world began to move without him consciously willing it to do so; it took a moment to realize she was lifting the head of the gurney to sit him up and hopefully ease his breathing.

Bobby continued to gasp for breath.

"Shit, he's hyperventilating. Paula-" Someone managed to find a paper bag and hand it to her, which Dr. Foxx then opened with a flick of the wrist before constricting the top and holding it in front of Bobby's mouth. "Breathe deeply, Drake," she instructed. "Deep breaths. That's it. Get that cee-oh-two into your lungs. Easy does it."

Bobby reached up to grab her hand where it held the bag against his mouth. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. But then he heard Dr. Foxx's voice, strong and determined. He focused on it, let it serve as his beacon, his guide. He tried to concentrate on her words, tried to breathe deeply, evenly. Before long, he was able to breathe easier, without labor or fuss. Exhausted, he let go of her hand and lay back.

"That's it, Drake," Dr. Foxx said, lowering the bag. She grabbed her stethoscope from around her neck and put it on, ausculting his lungs. Replacing her stethoscope, she grabbed his wrist to feel his pulse. The nurse was already adjusting the nose-prongs for oxygen delivery. "Paula, I want an arterial blood gas stat."

"You want an A-line, in case we need serial samples?" the nurse asked as she donned a pair of latex gloves.

"No, let's see the results of this sample first. Have someone else bring me his chest rads. I didn't think there were any signs of pulmonary edema, but I want to make sure. We should probably push some Lasix just in case. If he becomes agitated again, we may have to sedate him."

Bobby, who had nearly drifted off to sleep, opened his eyes widely. "What? No drugs, Doc. I'm okay now. I just-" But his words were once again drowned out by a round of coughing-this time sounding much wetter than previously.

"That settles it. Push three hundred mgs of furosemide IV," Dr. Foxx said, reaching for Bobby's chart to scribble the addition to his treatment orders. "Mr. Drake, your lungs are accumulating fluid. This is a result of the smoke inhalation. We're going to give you some medication to help clear that fluid. It should take effect pretty quickly, and make your breathing easier. In the meantime, we're giving you some oxygen. Do you understand?"

"Y-yeah," Bobby whispered weakly. His eyelids felt like lead, and he no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open. "Doc?"

"Yes?"

"Can you do me a favor?"

"What is it?"

"Can you go check on Jeanie for me? Let me know how she's doing?" He cracked an eye open to look at her.

She gave a curt nod of the head. "Sure thing. In the meantime, try to get some rest, okay?"

''Kay."

Dr. Foxx regarded her patient for a moment. "Paula, if he still seems out of it in twenty minutes, we should probably place a Foley."

"Okay."

"Thanks. I'll be back to check on him in a bit." She quickly took her leave.

Paula brought a Mayo stand with her materials over to the gurney.

"What's a Foley?" Bobby asked, already feeling the edge of his consciousness graying.

"A catheter," Paula explained as she stuck him for the blood gas.

"But I already have an IV line," Bobby muttered.

"Not that kind. A urinary catheter."

Once again, Bobby's eyes shot open. "You ain't sticking a tube down there," he said, his voice an octave higher than normal, as he gestured around his waist. "If I'm not up in twenty minutes, you wake me. I'll pee in a cup if I have to."

Paula grinned as she removed the syringe of bright red blood and applied a folded piece of gauze and a band-aid over the artery. "Be right back," she said, poking the needle into a small blue rubber cube and hurrying to the proper machine to have the sample analyzed.

He was asleep before she had even left.

Bobby awoke as nimble fingers removed the nose-prongs of the oxygen tubing. He looked up expecting to see Paula, instead found himself focusing on the face of Dr. Foxx. He wordlessly leaned forward, allowing her to lift the tubing over his head.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she said, winding the hosing and placing it over the cylindrical control gauge on the wall behind the gurney.

"'S okay," he murmured, swallowing. "Thirsty. . . ."

"Probably from the Lasix," she said, offering him a plastic cup with a straw.

He placed his hand over hers as he leaned his head forward and took several sips.

"Easy does it," she warned. "Drink it slowly or-"

Bobby coughed.

With a sigh, Dr. Foxx replaced the cup on a side-table. "Great. Get aspiration pneumonia on top of everything else. Like my day hasn't been busy enough already."

"'M okay," Bobby replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just went down the wrong pipe, is all."

"Mm-hm. I can tell already you're not the type to listen to doctor's orders."

His only reply was a smirk. It was short-lived, however, and quickly replaced with a somber expression. "Were you able to find out how Jeanie's doing?"

"They transferred her to the Burn Unit a little while ago. She's in critical condition." Putting on her stethoscope, she leaned forward to auscult his chest. "Deep breath, please."

Bobby did as ordered.

"Again. . . . Once more."

Each time Bobby inhaled through the nose, he got a whiff of the doctor's hair. Unlike the sterile, antiseptic smell of the surrounding Emergency Room, this was a pleasant, fresh scent. Not quite fruity, not exactly floral. He tried to place his finger on it.

The doctor stood up straight, replacing her stethoscope. She was about to report her findings when she realized that he was staring at her, regarding her thoughtfully. "What? What is it?"

"Herbal Essences?"

Her eyebrows rose in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Your shampoo-is it Herbal Essences?"

"My shampoo?" she asked, placing a self-conscious hand to her head. She usually started her shift with her straight brown hair twisted and pinned atop her head, but mid-way through the day several strands had managed to escape, falling onto her forehead. Right now, one lay over her eye. She hastily tucked it behind her ear. "Not that it's any business of yours, but no."

"White Rain?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "No."

"Pert Plus?"

She shook her head. "What are you getting at here, Drake?"

"Just curious. And now I'm stumped. Care to enlighten me?"

She pursed her lips as she reached for his wrist to take his pulse. "Head and Shoulders."

"Head and Shoulders! Of course! Practical. I should have guessed."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It's just, you can tell a lot about a woman from her shampoo."

"Oh? What about conditioner?"

"That too. What do you use?"

"I don't. Not separate, anyway. I use the two-in-one formula." As soon as she said it, she shook her head. "God, I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"Ah, but it's quite revealing. You're sensible, and efficient. You like to manage your time wisely, but without cutting corners."

She smirked. "I've heard of reading palms or tea-leaves, but never one's hair care products."

"You think that's good, wait'll you hear what I make of a person's deodorant-"

Dr. Foxx cleared her throat. "As I was about to say before you interrupted, your lungs sound much better. Your breathing no longer seems labored."

"No, it feels fine. No shortness of breath."

"Good. The Lasix seems to have done the trick. Although I suspect that most of the difficulty had to do with the hyperventilation."

Bobby felt the warmth spread across his cheeks, down his neck. "I- I'm sorry about that, Doc."

Her brow furrowed. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I shouldn't have lost it like that." He bowed his head.

"Really, Drake, it's no big deal. Happens all the time. Besides, it could have been a lot worse."

"Yeah? How?"

"You could have puked."

"True," he admitted, unable to hide a smile. "And it probably would have gone all over you."

"Wouldn't have been the first time."

"Seriously?"

She nodded. "You work in the ER for a bunch of years, you get used to wearing all sorts of bodily fluids."

"Sounds like fun. All sorts, you say?"

"Yep. You name a type of body fluid, or an orifice from which one can be expelled, I've probably been covered in it at some time or another."

"Really? Even with-"

"Speaking of bodily fluids, if that Lasix had time to clear your lungs, then it's probably been excreted by now. Gotta love diuretics. I'm hoping we don't need to place a Foley. . . ."

Bobby's eyes widened, even as his color deepened once more. "Hell no! I can pee on my own, thank you very much."

"Do you have to?"

He thought for a moment. A very short moment. "Like a racehorse."

"Shall I get you that cup now?" she asked, trying to hide her smirk as she scribbled in his chart.

"How about you point me in the direction of the nearest bathroom?"

"Somehow I don't think you're gonna make it on your own, sport."

"Only one way to find out," Bobby said, throwing back the blanket. It had not occurred to him until that moment to be worried about his attire-or lack thereof. He was relieved to see that he was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms below the hospital gown.

"Hold on, Drake," Dr. Foxx said, placing a staying hand on his shoulder. "You've got a concussion and broken ribs, and you were suffering from pulmonary edema. You try to get up unassisted, and I'm gonna be picking you up off of the floor two seconds from now."

"Then what do you suggest?"

She wordlessly reached for the side-table and held out a bedpan.

Bobby shook his head. "Uh uh. No way, no how. I'm not using that."

"C'mon, try it. You might like it."

"Hell no. I'm not bedridden, I can go to the damned bathroom."

"Not by yourself, you can't."

"Then help me."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

Bobby quickly colored. "Not you per se, Doc. I mean, can't you have someone help me get to the bathroom, so I don't have to pee in the middle of the room?"

"That's what curtains are for, Drake."

"You ever tried peeing in public? It's not easy."

"Hard to imagine you shy about doing anything-especially micturition following that dose of Lasix." Seeing the look of confusion on his face, she smirked. "Well, I suppose I could ask Paula if she would mind bringing over a wheelchair to help you get to the bathroom. . . ."

Bobby hesitated. He hated like hell to have to be wheeled to the bathroom like some sort of invalid to take a piss. But by the same token, he really did not want to have to face a worse embarrassment either of having to use the bedpan or of having to be lifted off of the floor-because though he was loathe to admit it, he was quite weak right now. He likely would not be able to take more than a couple of steps before his knees buckled.

"All right, Doc."

So he's not completely pigheaded after all. Will wonders never cease. "You've got to promise to be on your best behavior for Paula, though."

"Cross my heart," he replied, making the gesture on his chest. Bobby was shocked that she actually managed to grace him with a smile. Now that she was in a pleasant mood, not scowling at him or ordering him around, he realized that she was actually quite pretty- although perhaps a little older than his first impression; he guessed she was in her mid-thirties. She wore no make-up-or if she did, it was in subtle shades that served only to enhance her natural beauty. Beneath long lashes shone light brown eyes the color of amber. A small smattering of freckles was sprinkled across high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. Her full lips, which had been curled upwards in a small grin, suddenly pursed as her brow wrinkled.

"You know, Drake, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Oh? And what might that be, Doc?"

"Just something that's been bugging me about the nature of your injuries. I just don't understand how you managed to escape relatively unscathed."

"Unscathed? What do you call this bump on my noggin and my busted ribs? Not to mention my pulmonary contusions-"

"Edema," she corrected. "Contusions are bruising, whereas edema-"

"Whatever. I'd say that hardly qualifies as unscathed."

"What I meant to say is how you were able to avoid further injury from the car fire. Sure, you inhaled a great deal of smoke and dust, but you have no external indications of your proximity to the flames." She took his hand in hers and lifted it. "Look at your arms-there's no blistering, no redness. Hell, your skin is cool to the touch. When you were first brought in, your body temperature was actually sub-normal. I initially attributed it to shock, but that still doesn't explain your lack of burns. The paramedics said they found you collapsed on the ground beside your companion, apparently after having carried her from the wreckage. Considering the extent of her injuries, your merely touching her should have led to injury to your hands at the very least. But look at the skin there-" She turned his hand over in hers, ran a finger down his palm.

Bobby suppressed a shiver.

"The skin is unblemished. This is medically impossible!" she declared in exacerbation.

"Well, Scully, I don't know what to tell you. Guess I'm just a regular X-File."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Aren't you in the least bit curious at to why-"

"What I'm really curious about, Doc, is when I can go see Jean."

She quickly dropped his hand and slipped hers into the pockets of her lab coat. "Drake, I don't know if that's a good idea. . . ."

"Please, Doc. I need to see her."

This time it was the doctor who hesitated. Bobby knew that he was dependent upon her discretion in this matter-all she need do was order him to bed rest to prevent him from seeing Jean. And while he realized that she was probably trying to protect him, at the same time, he hoped that his genuine concern for his friend tugged sufficiently at her heartstrings.

Dr. Foxx took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She licked her lips. "All right. But I don't want you out of bed long. You need to rest."

"Sure thing, Doc. Whatever you say."

"All right. I'll see if after she helps you to the bathroom Paula can take you up to the Burn Unit." She began to leave, but stopped abruptly before heading back to the gurney. "I was going to ask you earlier, but you were sleeping. . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Since you'll be staying overnight for observation, you might like some things from home. Is there anyone you'd like us to contact?"

Bobby was about to offer protest for having to remain in the hospital when he suddenly realized that no one knew about the car accident, or their injuries. He slapped himself on the forehead. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

"Drake, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I should let them know about Jeanie. Shit, why didn't I think of it sooner?"

"Perhaps because you were too busy trying to breathe. But you raise a good point. Can you supply us with some information about her? Apparently she didn't have any identification on her when she was brought in."

"Yeah, sure, but that's not what I meant. I need to call home."

The doctor nodded. "Yes, her next of kin should be notified."

Bobby stared up at her, not quite sure what to make of Dr. Foxx's statement. The only time he had heard that phrase used was in relation to receiving an inheritance or permission for surgery. "Next of kin . . . ?"

"Are her parents nearby?"

"Scott," Bobby muttered. "We should call Scott."

"Brother?" the doctor ventured.

"Husband. Scott is Jeanie's husband."

"Oh." She sounded surprised.

"What?"

"It's just . . . I thought . . . I mean, I was under the impression. . . ." A blush quickly crept across her cheeks.

"You thought that Jeanie and I . . . ?"

"I thought that she was your girlfriend, yes," Dr. Foxx quickly replied. "I mean, the way you got upset when you learned of her injuries. . . ." Feeling as though she was putting her foot in it, she cleared her throat and averted her eyes.

"Me and Jeanie go way back. . . ."

"I see."

"Not like that! We went to school together. Scott too, as a matter of fact. They're both two of my closest friends. So of course I'm worried about her. And Scott needs to know."

"Yes, he does. If you'll give me his number, I'll have Jean's doctor call him immediately," she said, handing Bobby a pen and a small notepad from her coat pocket.

"I'm gonna give you his home number, and his work number as well," Bobby explained as he scribbled on the paper. "This is the main number for the Institute. Whoever calls should ask to speak to Scott Summers."

"Institute?" Dr. Foxx asked as she took back the pad and pen.

"The Xavier Institute, in Salem Center. We're all teachers there."

When had she heard that name before? she wondered. She stared down at Bobby's hasty scrawl and the name written there. That name seemed familiar as well.

"Doc?" Bobby called. "Something wrong?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Let me go get this information to Jean's physician, so she can inform Scott about her condition and answer any questions he might have," she said, waving her notepad.

"Thanks again, Doc."

With a final nod, she strode across the room in search of the nurse.

**End of Chapter 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 4**

"You warm enough?" Paula asked Bobby as she wheeled him toward the elevator bank. "I can grab you a blanket or a robe if you need it."

"Nah, I'm fine, thanks," he told her.

"Feel better?" Dr. Foxx asked, approaching them.

Bobby looked up at her. "Much. Don't suppose I can convince you to ditch these?" he asked, hiking a thumb at the fluid bag hanging from a pole on the back of the wheelchair. "We're just gonna have the problem all over again in a couple of hours."

"I'm keeping you on maintenance overnight," she informed him. "Tomorrow morning, your doctor can decide whether or not to discontinue them."

"Wait a sec, I thought you were my doctor."

"I am, until you're transferred to a room upstairs."

"Oh." He almost sounded . . . disappointed. "For a minute there, I thought you were trying to get rid of me." He smiled innocently.

Dr. Foxx rolled her eyes. "Not for lack of trying," she muttered under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Paula, I can take over from here," she told the nurse.

Paula looked confused. "I don't mind, Dr. Foxx."

"I know. But we're a little short-staffed tonight, and Dr. Lee could use your help in curtain two. I'm on break anyway."

"All right," Paula said, shrugging. "See you later, Bobby." Touching his shoulder, she flashed a bright smile before heading back to the ER.

Brow furrowed, Bobby looked up at the doctor. "You shouldn't have to spend your break babysitting me."

"It's no big deal, Drake. Like I said, we're short-staffed with nurses today, and we really can't spare Paula for that long."

"You sure, Doc?"

"Positive."

He smiled at her appreciatively. "In that case, okay. Thanks."

She returned the grin. Just then, the elevator doors opened with a bing. Dr. Foxx pushed Bobby inside and pressed five. Leaning against the handrail, she took a deep breath. "So, tell me about your friends."

He looked taken aback. She did not seem the type for small talk. "What, you mean Jean and Scott?"

She nodded.

"What do you want to know?"

"Oh, I don't know. What do they look like?"

Bobby hesitated. Her inquiry seemed a little . . . odd. But then again, she was doing him a favor by escorting him upstairs; he could at least humor her attempts at chitchat. "Jeanie's five-six, long red hair, green eyes, very pretty. Scott's, what, like six-three, brown hair. . . ."

She was nodding as he spoke, as though agreeing with everything he said. "Wears a pair of red sunglasses, even indoors?"

Bobby's eyes widened, even as his face went a shade paler. "Yeah, that's right. How the hell do you know that?"

"Do they have a foster daughter, about fifteen, Asian, who roller blades? With an unusual name-very cheerful. Joy?"

"Jubilee."

"That's it! Jubilee. Short for Jubilation, right?"

"Doc, you're scaring the shit out of me. How the hell do you know all this?"

"I treated Jubilee several months back, when she was brought into the ER. She was hit by a drunk driver while she was skating. I remember your friends now-I rarely forget a face. Very nice couple, as I recall. Cared about that girl a great deal."

"Small world," Bobby replied softly as the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor. He still felt wary about how much the doctor knew about his teammates.

Dr. Foxx grabbed the chair handles and wheeled Bobby out into the main corridor. They continued in silence for about fifty feet until they came to a T-junction, where they took a left.

"Did the doctor get in touch with Scott?" Bobby asked.

"I gave her the information. She said she was going to call him ASAP."

"That's good. Scott will want to be here."

They were approaching a set of double doors labeled "Burn Unit." As they neared the entrance, Dr. Foxx stopped.

"Drake, I need to warn you that this is going to be upsetting. It'll be quite a shock at first. Seeing a friend or loved one who's been seriously burned is not easy to deal with. It's not a pretty sight."

Bobby shrugged. "I'm not queasy when it comes to blood."

"It's not bloody. Besides, she's covered in bandages. Right now, it's probably the extent of the injuries that will be most troubling."

Bobby wrung his hands together nervously. "H-how . . . how extensive are they?"

"She sustained burns on her arms, legs, chest, back . . . and face."

"Oh God, her face?" He took a shaky breath.

"There's one other thing."

"There's more?"

She nodded. "They had to place a tube down her throat to help her breathe. She's on a ventilator."

There was a sharp gasp. "She . . . she's not breathing on her own?"

"As I said, her injuries were quite extensive. She also inhaled a great deal of smoke-far more than you had."

Slowly, he nodded. "I understand. Let's go."

"Are you sure? Believe me, Drake, no one will think any less of you if you change your mind."

Setting his jaw, he shook his head determinedly. "No, I need to do this. I owe it to Jeanie. Let's go, Doc."

"All right." Offering a smile of encouragement, Dr. Foxx pressed the square metal panel on the wall that automatically opened the doors and wheeled Bobby into the Burn Unit.

Once again, they proceeded in silence down the hallway. Dr. Foxx stopped briefly at the nurse's station to ask what room Jean was in before resuming the trip. They continued to the last room on the right, where she halted just in front of the door.

Bobby peered through the narrow pane of glass on the door. From his vantage point, he could see a blanket covering the legs of the bed's occupant. A nurse stood by the front of the bed, fussing with some monitoring equipment, obscuring his view of the patient's head.

Dr. Foxx looked down at him, compassion filling her troubled face. "Are you ready?"

He tried to speak, but found his mouth quite dry. Damned Lasix. He licked his lips. Slowly, Bobby nodded. "Yeah."

Wordlessly, Dr. Foxx pushed open the door and wheeled Bobby inside. At the sound of their entrance, the nurse turned to face them.

"How is she?" the doctor asked.

"No change in her vitals," the nurse replied, recording her observations in the medical record. "I'll be at the nurse's station if you need me."

"Thank you . . . Marisa," Dr. Foxx said, reading the nurse's nametag.

She gave Bobby an encouraging smile and nodded at the doctor before leaving.

Bobby drew a sharp breath as he finally got a good look at Jean. If had not been told so, he never would have been able to tell that it was her lying in that bed. Every visible skin surface was wrapped in gauze bandages. Her entire face and neck were covered in them, with space left only for the endotracheal tube to reach her mouth. Her arms, which lay above the blanket at her sides, were likewise swaddled. She lay so still. The only indications she still lived were the hiss of the ventilator-along with the accompanying rise and fall of her chest-and the regular beeping of the heart monitor.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "She looks like a mummy."

"It's necessary to protect the wounds and absorb the fluid that leaks from the skin surface," Dr. Foxx explained softly. "Right now, one of the primary dangers is infection-both because the skin normally serves as a natural barrier to microorganisms, but also because her immune system is compromised."

Bobby looked up at the many tubes and wires leading to her body. They disappeared beneath the surface of the bandages at neck level. "What are all those?" he asked, gesturing.

"IV lines, for fluid and electrolyte supplementation, nutritional supplementation. Also a sampling line, for blood."

"Why are they going to her neck and not her arms?"

"I suspect the vasculature in her arms was damaged. It looks like they've placed a central line-down her jugular."

Bobby winced. "Can you move me closer?"

"Sure." She silently pushed Bobby to the bedside.

"Is she in pain?" he asked.

"No," Dr. Foxx whispered. "Full-thickness burns are anesthetic." When he looked up at her questioningly, she continued, "Due to their extent, the nerve endings have been destroyed."

Bobby grimaced. "Well, that's something, I guess. At least she's not hurting." He returned his glance to Jean.

Dr. Foxx walked to the foot of the bed, picked up the tin-back, and began to skim its contents.

"What's it say?"

She was quiet a moment as she flipped through the pages. "Basically all that I've told you. They're administering Lasix because they're worried about pulmonary edema. No significant indications of airway or lung injury-yet. It can take 24 to 48 hours to manifest." She paused as she continued to leaf through the record.

Bobby, meanwhile, had taken Jean's bandaged hand in his own. He was hesitant at first, afraid it would hurt her in some way. He had to remind himself that she probably could not even feel it, even if she was awake. Leaning forward, he slowly brought it to his face, held the scratchy gauze against his cheek. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Jeanie," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"They debrided most of the wounds upon presentation, to help hasten healing," Dr. Foxx continued. "They may want to repeat that procedure in a day or two, depending upon the progression of the tissue healing. They're monitoring for signs of infection, sepsis, pneumonia, renal or other organ failure, ARDS. . . ."

"Any one of those complications can happen?"

"One or more, yes," she replied.

"How likely are they to occur?"

"Given the nature of her injuries . . . pretty likely. But that's not always the case," she quickly amended.

She was in the middle of double-checking fluid rates and drug dosages when she spared a glance at the bedside. What she saw caught her undivided attention: Bobby was sitting with Jean's hand clasped in his own and gently pressed to his cheek in a reverent manner. Her first instinct was to leave, to allow this man his privacy as he grieved for his friend. But then he spoke to her.

"But in your experience, complications usually occur, right?"

She slowly replaced the tin-back into its sleeve at the foot of the bed, and quietly made her way closer to the bedside, still maintaining a respectable distance. "Drake, we've got to remain hopeful. She could pull through this without further complications, and make a remarkable recovery."

"I need you to level with me," Bobby said softly, still holding tight to Jean's hand. "H-How bad . . . ?" He fought to maintain control, took a deep breath before turning his head to meet her eyes. "How bad are we talking here?"

Why was he putting her on the spot like this? The last thing she wanted to do right now was break his heart. "Drake. . . ."

"Goddammit! Will you stop with the double-talk that doesn't tell me jack shit! I'm asking you-I'm pleading with you-to be completely honest with me."

She averted her eyes as she slid her hands into her coat pockets. "The prognosis is grave."

"Grave? What the hell does that mean?"

She opened her mouth, about to say it was a degree worse than poor, when he cut her off.

"Oh, wait, I get it!" He laughed sardonically. "It pretty much describes how you're gonna end up-six feet under."

"Drake, please. . . ."

But he did not hear her. Rather, he sat, still clasping the bandaged hand, though now his head was bowed, as though in defeat.

Not knowing what else to say, Dr. Foxx decided to leave. She quietly headed for the door, trying not to disturb Bobby. She stopped at the sound of his voice.

"Oh God, Jeanie, I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for you to get hurt. You don't deserve this. I'm so very, very sorry, Jeanie. So sorry." His voice broke.

Opening the door, Dr. Foxx was halfway out of the room when she hesitated. Why, she was not certain. This was so unlike her, to take such a personal interest in a patient. She never got emotionally involved. She always distanced herself, remained unattached so as to allow herself to focus on the scientific facts, to make the most appropriate, well-informed medical decisions. Because to become emotionally involved with her patients or their loved ones would no longer leave her unbiased, which would then compromise their care. And with all the pain and death she dealt with on a regular basis, it would also make her not want to get out of bed in the morning.

Despite her cardinal rule about remaining aloof-unattached-to all emotional matters of her patients, she somehow found herself drawn to this man. From the moment she had first spoken to him in the ER, despite their initial rocky exchange, there was just something about him that appealed to her. Was it his happy-go-lucky nature? His wacky sense of humor? Maybe it was his unexpected compassion and fierce loyalty to his friend. Whatever the reason, she liked Bobby Drake. And seeing him like this-devastated by what had happened to one of his oldest and dearest friends-made her own heart ache. She did not understand it-never before had a patient's dilemma moved her to such an extent. She must be getting soft with age.

Walk out that door, keep walking, don't look back, give him his privacy, he doesn't know you, he doesn't want you here, she told herself. She hesitated, considering. Oh, fuck it! You never listen to yourself anyway. . . .

Before she could change her mind, she walked back into the room and over to the wheelchair. She mulled over what to say. 'I'm sorry' seemed so trite. 'It's okay' was so untrue. 'I'm here . . . if you need to talk' sounded presumptuous. So rather than say anything, she chose just to act. A plain gesture, really. But one that spoke volumes.

Silently, she placed a hand on his back.

Slowly, Bobby turned his head, looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes. She half-expected him to scream at her, or to quietly ask her to leave. He continued to stare up at her, his bottom lip quivering as he tried to fight it.

She gazed down at him, her own eyes suddenly, unexpectedly moist. She tried to smile encouragingly, but found it difficult to put on a happy face. Still at a loss for words of comfort, she once again chose to speak through actions: She gently rubbed his back.

That one simple act of kindness was all it took. Bobby's face crumpled. Before she even realized what was happening, he was reaching for her, and she was holding him. She hesitated at first, but then she felt his arms wrap around her waist as though his life depended on it, like she was a life raft keeping him afloat during an ocean storm. Eyes screwed shut against the pain, he tried to stop the tears. But as he buried his face in her belly, the wetness soaked her scrub top.

"Shh," she soothed, one hand on his neck, the other gently stroking his hair. "I know," she whispered. "I know."

"It . . . it's all . . . my . . . f-fault," he murmured.

"What? Don't be ridiculous. How on earth is this your fault?"

"I . . . I never . . . should'a . . . asked her . . . to go sh-shopping . . . with me," he grated out between sobs. "I only l-looked away . . . for a few s-seconds. . . . The c-car . . . c-came . . . outta nowhere. . . . I t-tried . . . to s-swerve. . . ."

"It was an accident. That means it was no one's fault. Things like this happen. It makes them no less terrible, no less painful. But you're not to blame."

"But if I h-hadn't've-"

"No buts, Drake, you hear me? It's not your fault." She pulled back, taking his face in her hands. "Look at me," she said, her voice stern. Hesitantly, he complied. "I know you're feeling sorry for yourself right now. And it's easy to wallow in self-pity. But you can't be that goddammed selfish right now. Not when you claim that Jean and her husband are such dear friends of yours."

"They are," Bobby insisted.

"If that's true, then now's the time for you to prove it. Because there's no other time when they've needed you more. If there's any chance that Jean is going to make it through this, then she's going to need the love and devotion and prayers of her friends and family. And no matter what the outcome, Scott is going to need the support of his loved ones. Now, do you want to let them go through this alone, or are you going to be there for them, to help them?"

His eyes darted to the side to glance at Jean, and he bit his bottom lip. His eyes lingered there for many long moments. But then he met her gaze, and he took a deep breath. Slowly, he nodded. "I'm gonna be there for them-no matter what."

A smile spread across her face, lighting it. "Good. That's what I knew you'd say."

"You knew?"

"You're a fighter, Drake."

He grinned as he swiped at his cheeks. "Funny, I've always considered myself a lover."

Chuckling, she handed him some tissues. "No, you're a fighter. That was apparent from the moment you woke up and gave me the one-finger salute."

"Aw, geez, Doc, I'm sorry about that."

"No, you're not."

"You're right, I'm not," he agreed before blowing his nose. "I am sorry about that, though," he said, gesturing toward the wet spot in the center of her scrub shirt. "Hell, I slimed you."

"Like I said earlier, ya worn one type of bodily fluid, ya worn 'em all."

He actually managed a brief chuckle.

"I really need to get you back to bed," she told him.

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Why, Dr. Foxx, just what are you insinuating?"

"Don't even go there," she scowled. "And here I was just starting to think of you as a sensitive guy." She shook her head. "Seriously, before I take you back downstairs-to your hospital bed-would you like me to leave you two alone for a few minutes?"

"Actually, that'd be great."

"Sure thing." She started to turn toward the doorway when she felt a hand slip into hers. She stopped, and felt a gentle squeeze. Looking down, she saw Bobby smiling up at her.

"Thanks, Doc. For everything."

"My pleasure," she replied, returning the pressure briefly. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

He watched her exit the room and stared at the door for a while after she left before finally turning his full attention to Jean.

**End Chapter 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 5**

As Dr. Foxx left the room, she heard voices coming from the nurse's station down the hall. One of them was raised, and sounded angry. She decided to go see who was causing the commotion.

As she drew closer, she saw a couple talking to Marisa. Her attention was first caught by the woman: tall and slender, she must have been about six feet in height. What was most striking, though, was her long white hair-a stark contrast to her dark skin. She could not be more than thirty, so it was not as though she had grayed prematurely. Surely that shade could not be natural?

The dark-haired man who stood next to her was only a few inches taller. There was no mistaking the trademark red sunglasses. Taking no notice of her approach, he continued to harass the nurse. "How many times do I have to tell you? My wife is a patient here. Jean Summers. Her physician, Dr. Philips, called me and said to have her paged as soon as I arrived. I don't see what's so difficult to-"

"Excuse me," Dr. Foxx interrupted. "Mr. Summers? Scott Summers?"

The couple turned to look at her.

"Yes," Scott said, taking a step closer. "Are you Dr. Philips?"

"No, actually, I'm Dr. Foxx-"

"Good for you," he snapped, once more approaching the counter and addressing Marisa. "Can you please just get on the goddammed phone and page-"

"Scott!" the white-haired woman snapped. She turned to Dr. Foxx. "I apologize for my friend. He is quite distraught right now with worry for his wife."

"I understand," the doctor said, unable to keep from staring at the woman's bright blue eyes. She had the most unusual features, which when put together were quite beautiful. Coupled with her bearing and her manner of speech, she seemed almost . . . regal.

Dr. Foxx walked behind the nurse's station. "Marisa, what seems to be the problem here?"

"Well, I was on the phone with Clin Path, had the business office on hold, and was trying to complete some paperwork when this gentleman started shouting at me," the nurse replied, looking rather frazzled, as she pointed the phone receiver at Scott to emphasize her point.

"Well, why don't you finish taking the calls, and I'll page Dr. Philips, okay?"

"Thanks, Dr. Foxx."

"No problem, Marisa." Checking a listing on the counter, she picked up another phone, dialed a beeper number, and punched in the extension for the nurse's station followed by the pound key before hanging up.

"Thank you, Doctor," the white-haired woman said. "We appreciate your assistance."

"No problem. I-" Just then, the phone rang. Holding up a finger indicating that they should wait a minute, Dr. Foxx picked up the receiver. "Burn Unit Nurse's Station, Dr. Foxx speaking. . . . Hey, Heidi. . . . Yeah, I beeped you. Mr. Summers is here to see his wife. . . . Uh huh. . . . Okay, no prob. See you soon." She hung up the phone. "Dr. Philips said she'll be right up."

"Thank you," Scott said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude." He looked from the doctor to Marisa repentantly before lowering his gaze. "I'm not usually like this. . . ."

"We all say things we don't mean when we're upset. Come, let me show you to the lounge. You'll be more comfortable there when Dr. Philips comes to speak with you." She stepped out from behind the counter and began to lead them down the hallway.

"What did you say your name was?" Scott asked.

"Ashley Foxx. I don't believe we've met," she said, holding out her hand to the other woman.

"Ororo Monroe," she replied, taking the proffered hand. "I am a family friend of Jean and Scott's."

Scott looked at the doctor. "I don't mean to be rude again, Doctor, but do I know you?" Scott asked her as he and Ororo followed her. "You look very familiar."

"As a matter of fact, we met several months ago. I was the ER doctor who treated your foster daughter, Jubilee."

Ororo's eyes widened. "That is quite a memory you have, Doctor."

"I never forget a face," she explained as she opened the door to the lounge and ushered them inside. "How is Jubilee doing?"

"Great," Scott said. "She's back at school now." There was no mistaking how Scott's countenance brightened momentarily at the mention of the girl.

"That's wonderful."

"If you do not mind my asking, Dr. Foxx," Ororo began as she took a seat on the couch, "if you are an ER doctor, then what are you doing in the Burn Unit? Did you treat Jean when she was first brought in?" She looked at Scott, and beckoned for him to sit down beside her. Reluctantly, he did so.

"No, I didn't treat Jean," she replied, sitting in an overstuffed chair caddy-corner to the couch. "I have, however, been treating another friend of yours, Robert Drake."

"Is he all right?" Scott asked. "Was he burned as well? Dr. Philips didn't mention anything. . . ."

"No, he was not burned. He suffered a concussion, he's got broken ribs, and he had some fluid in his lungs, which we've since treated. We're going to keep him overnight for observation, but he should be able to be released tomorrow at his doctor's discretion."

"We came straight up here and did not check the ER," Ororo explained. "Can we see him?"

"Actually, he's just down the hall, sitting with Jean."

"What?" Scott was immediately on his feet. "Then why the hell can't I see her?" He started heading for the door. "What room is she in?"

"Mr. Summers, I think it best if you wait for Dr. Philips-"

"Like hell I will!" He opened the door.

"Scott, please hear her out," Ororo implored. "Surely there is a reason Dr. Philips wants to speak to us first before we visit Jean."

Scott stopped with his hand on the door handle.

"Ms. Monroe is right," Dr. Foxx said. "Your wife's injuries are extensive, Mr. Summers. There is the potential for many serious complications. As I've already advised Mr. Drake, the state she is in is going to come as quite a shock. I think it best that Dr. Philips get you up to speed and answer any questions you might have before you see her. I don't say this to be cruel or unsympathetic; I just know that once you walk in that room, anything she says to you is going to go in one ear and out the other. Believe me, it's best this way."

Slowly, Scott nodded. "All right." Reluctantly, he made his way back to the couch, reclaimed his seat beside Ororo. She placed an encouraging hand over his, and he held onto it tightly.

Dr. Foxx sighed inwardly when Scott conceded. She had a feeling it was not her words that had convinced him so much as the reassuring presence of his friend. Nonetheless, she was glad that he had not decided to press the issue and make a scene. She had a good feeling that the flashes of anger she had seen just now and earlier at the nurse's station were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to his temper. In her years working in the ER, she had witnessed the gamut of reactions from people when they learned that their loved ones were hurt: everything from tears and wailing, keening and fainting, to anger and denial, and cold indifference bred by shock. Right now, she pegged Scott as going one of two ways: either he was going to give in to the fury, venting his pain and hurt under the guise of rage, or he was going to retreat into himself, presenting a cool, stoic façade. While the latter might be preferred for the sakes of friends, family, and hospital staff, Dr. Foxx had long since learned that sometimes expressing such volatile emotions were better for the griever's long-term emotional well-being. Only time would tell how Scott ultimately reacted.

Just then the door swung open, and a pretty brunette woman dressed in a lab coat walked into the room. She was slight-medium height, quite slender, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. "Hi there," she said, approaching the couch. "I'm Dr. Philips. You must be Mr. Summers," she said, extending her hand.

"Doctor," Scott said, rising to shake her hand.

"Ororo Monroe," his companion said as she, too, shook Dr. Philips' hand. "A family friend."

"Nice to meet you both. Hey, Ashley, thanks for taking care of these folks for me."

"My pleasure, Heidi," Dr. Foxx said, rising. "I'm going to go check on Bobby, bring him back downstairs."

"Can he stop by here first?" Ororo asked. "So we can see him?"

"All right. We'll be back shortly."

"Shall we wait for you?" Dr. Philips asked, taking the seat Dr. Foxx just vacated.

"No, Heidi, you go ahead. I've already briefed him." Seeing her colleague nod, Dr. Foxx quietly took her leave. She had just passed the nurse's station when she found Bobby wheeling himself toward her.

"Where'd you disappear to?" Bobby asked. "What happened to 'I'll be right outside'?"

"Sorry, Drake. Your friends arrived, and I needed to help them contact Jean's doctor."

"Scotty's here? Who's with him?"

"Ms. Monroe."

"'Roro? Thank God." He sighed. "She's just what Scott needs-someone who has a calming effect on him."

Dr. Foxx nodded. She could definitely see Ororo being a peaceful influence when she herself was so serene. "They've asked that you join them in the lounge." She stepped behind the wheelchair and began to move him toward the waiting area.

"Doc, if I tell you something that I know is gonna sound totally crazy, you promise not to laugh in my face?"

"I can try."

He took a deep breath. "It's not her."

"What do you mean?"

"That woman in there-it's not her. It's not Jeanie."

She stopped pushing. "What the hell do you mean it's not her?"

"I- I can't explain it. It's more a gut feeling than anything else. All I know is, it's not Jeanie."

She walked around to the front of the wheelchair and knelt down in front of him so that she could be on eye-level. "Drake, you have to swear to me that when we go in there, you're not going to mention a word of this crazy notion of yours. This is going to be hard enough for Scott to deal with without you putting insane notions in his head."

"Doc, I'm not making this up. As I sat there, looking at her, it hit me. That woman did not look like Jean."

"Didn't look like her? For God's sake, Drake, she's wrapped in bandages from head to toe! How the hell can you tell what she looks like!"

"It's hard to explain. For one thing, her . . . proportions . . . aren't right."

"Her proportions? What, she's too short? Her head's too big for her body?"

"No, her . . . proportions are off," Bobby reiterated, holding his hands palm-up, fingers slightly bent, in front of him.

Dr. Foxx stared at him, perplexed, for several long moments before realization hit. "For your information, things settle when a woman is laying down," she muttered, rolling her eyes heavenward and getting to her feet. Shaking her head, she turned her back on him.

"Doc, listen to me-please!"

She turned back around and crossed her arms. "Give me one good reason."

"Because if I'm right, and that's some other woman laying in that hospital bed in there, then the real Jeanie is missing, and we have no idea where she is." He could see her face soften-if only a tad. "Plus, this poor woman's family doesn't know what's happened to her. If she were your friend, your sister, wouldn't you want to know?"

Dr. Foxx shook her head. "I can't believe I'm actually standing here, listening to this nonsense!"

"I have an idea. C'mon, Doc, I can prove it to you."

"Prove it? How? Both hands were burned, so it's not as though she has fingerprints."

"Push me back in there, and I'll show you."

"Don't you think we should just wait until Scott goes in there? Surely the man will be able to tell if it's his own wife."

"He's going to be too overcome with grief to approach this logically. C'mon, humor me."

"Humor you? What the hell do you think I've been doing for the past five minutes?"

He looked up at her, his expression serious, his eyes determined. "Doc, if I can spare Scott the pain of believing that that poor, dying woman is his wife-a woman he loves more than life itself-then so help me, I'm going to do everything in my power to make it so. With or without your help."

A memory flashed before her eyes, then: of a young couple-Jean and Scott-sitting in the Emergency Room waiting area, hands clasped tightly, whispering words of encouragement to one another, as she approached them with news of their foster daughter. The way they had sat by the girl's bedside, fingers entwined, so comfortable with one another it seemed as though they could tell what the other was thinking. The strength of their love and their commitment to one another was completely obvious, even to a perfect stranger such as herself.

Bobby's idea seemed ludicrous. How the hell could she even consider believing it? But at the same time, what did she have to lose? Look at all Scott-and Ororo, and Bobby, and even young Jubilee-had to gain if he were right. That young woman had recently gained a mother, and was about to lose her; what if there was a chance that this did not have to be so?

"What's it gonna be, Doc?"

She licked her lips. "All right, I'll help you. God help me."

"Thanks, Doc. I knew I could count on you."

"Oh?" she asked, taking the handles of the wheelchair and turning him around. "How did you know that?"

"Head and Shoulders, remember? Practical. Sensible. Dependable."

"This is hardly sensible behavior," she muttered, once again opening the door to Jean's room and pushing him inside. "So, how are you going to prove this isn't her?"

"Well, we already covered that her fingerprints are gone. I don't suppose we have her jewelry-like her wedding band?"

"Destroyed in the fire."

"Hmm."

"Drake, I thought you said you had an idea."

"I do, it's just I was hoping maybe there was an easier way to prove it."

She crossed her arms. "You're stalling."

"No, I'm not. Were her feet burned?"

"Her feet?"

"More specifically, her toes?"

Dr. Foxx's brow furrowed. "Where the hell are you going with this?"

"I was remembering a conversation I had with Jeanie earlier today. One of our more inane ones." He smiled at the memory, and Dr. Foxx stopped scowling. "She was helping me find a birthday gift for my mom, since I have no clue when it comes to such matters. We were schmoozing in a department store, found ourselves at a make-up counter. I made a remark about the colors all the stuff comes in-how off-the-wall some of them were. We looked at some almost black lipstick, some blue eye shadow out of the sixties, then I pointed out this nail polish that was bright green. Well, maybe not bright green-not chartreuse or anything like that. More like a dark green. Forest green."

"Drake, is there a point to your rambling?"

He ignored her comment. "So I made a snide remark about that green polish." He quickly related the rest of his conversation with Jean. "And lo and behold, her toenails were painted mint green."

Dr. Foxx cocked her head to one side. "And what the hell does this have to do with the price of tea in China?"

"Nothing, unless you like imported green tea."

"Drake, why the hell have I been wasting my time with you?"

"Doc, help me pull down the blanket. I want to look at this woman's toes."

She rolled her eyes. "This isn't going to prove anything, you know."

"Yes, it will. I'm telling you, this morning, Jeanie's toes were polished green. If this woman's toes aren't, then she can't be Jeanie."

She opened her mouth to offer protest-but could not think of a single objection. She had to admit, it was decent logic. Insanely come by, but a logical conclusion all the same.

"All right, all right. Let me go around to the other side." She made her way to the far side of the bed, untucked the linen, and grasped one end of the blanket while Bobby picked up the end nearest him. Together, they pulled the covers back, unveiling a pair of bare, unburned feet.

At that moment, the door opened, and in walked Dr. Philips, followed closely by Scott and Ororo. Dr. Philips stopped speaking in mid-sentence as she caught sight of Bobby and Dr. Foxx.

"Robert?" Ororo asked, walking closer. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Take a look at this-all of you," Bobby said, calling them over.

"At Jean's feet?" Scott asked in confusion, nonetheless approaching.

"Dr. Foxx, how hard did Robert hit his head?" Ororo asked as she, too, walked over to the bedside.

"More importantly, have you been sampling some of his drugs?" Dr. Philips added, joining the group of onlookers.

"Take a look at that," Bobby said, pointing.

"What are we looking at?" Scott wondered.

"Her toes," Dr. Foxx said. "More specifically, her toenails."

"What about them?" Dr. Philips asked.

"What do you see?"

"Ashley, I don't understand. . . ."

"Heidi, describe to me what you see."

"I see ten perfectly normal toenails."

"What color are they?" Dr. Foxx asked.

Dr. Philips looked at Dr. Foxx as though she had suddenly grown a second head. "Normal toenail color-pink with white edges."

"We can all see the obvious," Ororo said. "But what does this mean?"

"It's quite simple, really," Bobby told them, his face erupting into an enormous grin. "This isn't Jeanie."

**End of Chapter 5**


	6. Chapter 6

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 6**

Jean felt consciousness return to her in layers, like the thin skins of an onion being peeled away one-by-one.

The first thing she noticed was a diffuse, stinging pain coming from her right arm.

The next thing she noticed was the smell. Not of smoke per se. But of something burning. Charred flesh, she realized in horror. Dear God, was it her own flesh?

She had to look. She had to know. But she was frightened. What if what she saw was even worse than her worst imaginings? Far easier to remain laying here, eyes closed. Maybe go back to sleep. . . .

She decided on a compromise. Slowly, she attempted to move her fingers. They were a little stiff, but otherwise easily obeyed her body's wishes. She gave a small sigh of relief.

"I see someone's starting to wake up," came a voice from nearby. It was a woman's voice. Pleasant, soothing. Almost . . . melodic.

"Nnnn. . . ."Jean murmured, blinking, trying to get her eyes to focus. "Wh-where. . . ?" Her voice sounded hoarse even to her own ears, her throat felt scratchy. She tried to speak once more, but the words were engulfed by a cough.

"Where are you?" the woman voiced for her.

Jean nodded.

"You're safe." The woman leaned over her, finally allowing Jean to get a look at her. She was young-mid-twenties, if even. And she was quite beautiful. She had smooth, creamy skin, rosy cheeks, a small straight nose, a round mouth curved up now in a friendly smile. Her eyes were unusual . . . a lovely violet that made the irises seem almost transparent. She had curly auburn hair that was pulled back off of her face, though an occasional ringlet escaped from below the white nurse's cap she wore. Lowering her gaze, Jean saw that the woman was dressed in a matching white dress uniform. Funny, she didn't realize people still wore those in this day and age.

"H-hospital. . . ?" Jean asked, trying to wet her parched lips.

"Here," the nurse said, reaching to the side. She returned with what looked like a straw, with a tiny sponge attached to the end. She used it to moisten Jean's lips. "Better?"

Jean nodded. "Still . . . thirsty."

"You're not allowed to drink yet. I can give you some ice chips to suck on in the meantime. Do you want some?"

Jean nodded again.

"Here you go," the nurse said, lifting Jean's head and feeding her a few ice chips.

"Thnks," Jean muttered around the mouthful of ice.

"You're welcome," she replied with a smile. That one simple gesture lit her entire face, made it practically glow. "Can you breathe all right? You inhaled a lot of smoke. We've been giving you oxygen supplementation." She gestured to the tubing that was inserted in Jean's nose.

"Breathing's fine," Jean replied.

"Good." She smiled again.

"Nme?"

"My name?"

Jean nodded.

"Isabella."

Jean smiled. "Jean."

"Nice to meet you, Jean. I'm going to change your bandage now."

As Isabella walked over to a nearby table, Jean took a moment to look around. They were in what appeared to be a small private hospital room. There was a single window to the left, and the blinds were closed. There was a solid door with no window on the wall across from her bed.

In addition to the oxygen tubing and the pulse oximeter that was connected to her left finger, there was an IV line in her left arm. She was finally able to venture a glance at her right arm. There was a gauze bandage lightly wrapped around her forearm. From what she could see of her hand, it looked unscathed.

The nurse approached, now wearing a pair of latex gloves. She pulled over a mayo stand, lowered it to just above the bed's height. She opened a sterile drape, and placed it across the small metal table's surface.

"Can you wiggle your fingers for me?" the nurse asked as she gently lifted Jean's arm.

Wincing, Jean moved her fingers.

"Good."

"H-how bad . . . ?"

"Not too bad," the nurse replied as she carefully began to unwrap the dressing. "They're only first-degree burns. You'll have some blistering, but it should heal with minimal scarring. Luckily, these seem to be the only burns you received." As she pulled away the last layer, Jean saw the bright red flesh of her arm and the dozens of fluid-filled blisters dotting the surface. She quickly looked away.

"What about Bobby?" she asked the nurse. "Was he hurt? How is he?"

There was no mistaking the way the nurse suddenly tensed. "Is that the, uh, man who was in the car with you?"

"Yes. Was he injured?"

Slowly, Isabella nodded. "He was hurt pretty badly." Averting her gaze, she busied herself by disposing of the soiled bandage.

"How badly? Is he going to be okay?"

"I- I don't know. He seemed to be in a pretty bad way."

"Oh God." She blinked back hot tears. "Can I see him?"

"They had to perform emergency surgery."

"It's that bad?" Jean swiped at her cheeks, wincing at the stinging of the IV catheter. "Was he burned?"

"Yes. He also sustained internal injuries. I'm sorry, but I really don't know more than that."

"Could you find out for me?"

"Once I've finished here."

Biting her lip, Jean nodded. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Sure." Isabella busied herself laying out new bandaging material. Then she began to gently apply a bright yellow cream to Jean's arm.

"What's that?" Jean asked, watching her.

"Silver sulfadiazine. It should soothe the wound, help it to heal."

"It feels cool. Sure beats aloe." She gasped as Isabella lifted her arm to apply a sterile non-stick dressing.

"I'm sorry. Are you in a lot of pain?" the nurse asked.

"I'll be okay," Jean replied. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from crying out as her arm was manipulated to place the bandage.

"You're hurting. When I'm done here, I'll add some morphine to your drip."

Jean drew a shaky breath as she looked up at the fluid bag in alarm. "Th-There's not any in there now . . . is there?" Suddenly it felt as though a concrete slab had been placed on her chest. She considered ripping the IV from her arm before the need to concentrate on breathing became overpowering.

"No, there's only dextrose supplementation." At Jean's ever-widening eyes, she clarified, "Sugar."

Jean gave an audible sigh of relief, felt the tightness in her chest dissipate. "No pain killers."

"There's no need for you to suffer, Jean."

"Isabella, I can't."

"But-"

"I'm pregnant."

Isabella's bright violet eyes widened. "Oh!"

"I'm sorry, I should have said something sooner." Jean looked at the nurse, thought she looked paler. Suddenly, her heart was in her throat. "Isabella, is everything okay with the baby? D-Did something happen because of the accident?"

"As far as I know, the baby is fine."

Jean reached out with her mind. And nearly panicked when she felt nothing. She could not sense the life growing inside her. "Oh God." Her hand instinctively reached for her middle. She tried again. Still nothing.

"Jean, what is it?" Isabella asked, walking closer. "What's wrong?"

Jean looked up at the nurse, tears in her eyes. How could she explain?

As Isabella placed a hand on Jean's shoulder, a thought occurred to Jean. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her mind toward Isabella, attempting a psi-scan. But once again, she sensed . . . nothing. How could that be?

She realized then that her telepathy must not be working. She looked at the bottle of salve on the mayo stand, tried to levitate it. It didn't budge even a fraction of an inch. No telekinesis either. What the hell was going on? Had she hit her head during the accident? God, she suddenly felt blind and deaf.

". . . please try to calm down," Isabella was saying.

The odds were, the baby was just fine-that she just could not sense it. But she had to be sure.

"Isabella, can we make sure the baby's okay?"

"I'll go speak to the doctor. I'm sure he can perform an ultrasound."

Blinking back tears, Jean nodded her head. "Th-thanks," she murmured, biting her lip.

"Let me go find him now."

"Thank you."

"I'll be back shortly." With another encouraging smile, Isabella turned for the door. Jean watched her leave. She was grace personified-she practically glided across the floor.

Jean let out a sigh and glanced down at her middle. Please be okay, baby, she thought as she lightly stroked her belly.

**End Chapter 6**


	7. Chapter 7

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 7**

"Jean?"

At the sound of her name and the gentle nudging of her shoulder, Jean opened her eyes. "Oh," she murmured, blinking up at Isabella. "I must have dozed off."

"I'm sorry to wake you. The doctor will be in in a few minutes to perform the ultrasound. I'm just going to get everything ready."

"Okay." Jean glanced to the counter on the right, in front of which stood a portable ultrasound machine: monitor, keyboard, printer, and an assortment of probes all on a wheeled cart.

"I'm going to pull down the blanket," Isabella explained as she did so, folding it over Jean's thighs. "And now I'm going to lift your gown above your abdomen." She bunched up the hospital gown, tucking it beneath Jean's breasts. "And now I'm going to place a couple of drapes." She unfolded the blue rectangular cloths and placed one on Jean's chest, tucking the other in the blanket a couple of inches below her navel. "All set."

As if on cue, the door opened and the doctor walked inside. He was tall and thin, dressed in a pinstriped shirt, dark tie, and long lab coat. His fair skin was a sharp contrast to the midnight black of his slicked-back hair, mustache, and goatee.

"Hello, Jean," he said, walking over to the bed and extending his hand. "I'm Dr. Gauche."

"Hi," she replied, lifting her left hand. "Sorry," she said, looking down at her bandaged right arm.

"No, it is I who should apologize," he said, grasping her hand between both of his. His fingers were ice cold. "How are you feeling?" he asked, feeling for the pulse in her wrist as he looked at his watch.

"My arm hurts, but other than that, I feel fine. I just want to make sure the baby is all right."

"Of course, of course. Perfectly understandable." He looked up at the nurse. "Isabella, if you will."

Nodding, Isabella wheeled the machine over to the right bedside, while the doctor pulled over a padded stool. He sat down, and made some adjustments to the equipment. "Can you see the monitor, Jean?"

"Yes." She was aware of Isabella coming to stand on her left, by her shoulder.

"All right, let's get started. I apologize in advance for this being so cold," he said, squirting a liberal dose of blue ultrasound transmission gel on her belly.

Jean shivered. "You're not kidding."

Smiling, Dr. Gauche picked up the transducer-a rectangular instrument a few inches wide-and pressed it onto her abdomen. He slowly slid it across her skin, and turned his face to look at the screen. A black-and-white blurry image appeared. He continued to move the probe, all the while making some adjustments on the keyboard, turning some knobs on the monitor. He stopped abruptly. "There it is."

Jean squinted at the screen. There was a small, roughly-circular shape that appeared to be moving quite rapidly. "That's the baby?"

"Here, let me turn on the Doppler." A very fast-paced tempo that sounded as though it were being generated underwater filled the room. "That's the baby's heartbeat."

"It's normal for it to be that fast, right?"

"Perfectly normal. I'm going to continue to scan, but thus far it looks like your baby is perfectly healthy, Jean."

"Oh, thank God." Smiling, Jean closed her eyes as tears of relief brimmed and spilled onto her cheeks. "Thank God."

"Here," Isabella said, handing her a tissue, as she smiled down at Jean.

"Thanks." She dabbed at her eyes. "I'm sorry if I'm so emotional. It's just, I had a miscarriage several months ago, so I'm a little paranoid about this pregnancy."

"Oh, Jean, I'm so sorry," Isabella told her.

"Did you abort in early term?" Dr. Gauche asked.

"During my first trimester, yes."

"And from this image, I'd estimate you're just over three months along?"

"Yes, that sounds about right. But that's a good sign, isn't it? That I'm already into the second trimester of this pregnancy."

"Yes, it is," he replied, continuing to stare at the monitor as he scanned her womb. "Nonetheless, Jean, given your past history, I'd recommend that we perform an amniocentesis. That way, we can be certain that everything is progressing as it should be."

"An amnio? That's where you insert a needle, right?"

"Exactly. We use the ultrasound to help us guide a needle into your uterus, to retrieve a small sample of fluid from the amniotic sac. The fluid will contain a few shed fetal cells, which can then be subjected to genetic analysis. We've got a great view of the fetus right now. I should be able to get a sample with little difficulty." He smiled at her, his teeth almost as white as his alabaster skin.

For some reason, she found that gesture to be anything but reassuring.

"I-I don't know. Can it wait?"

"It's not essential, no. But I nonetheless recommend that you have the procedure done today."

Jean looked up at Isabella, who still stood by her head. "It doesn't hurt, Jean. And it'll give you the answers you're looking for."

Jean nodded. "All right. Let's do it."

"Great. Isabella, could you grab an amnio kit, please?"

"Certainly, Doctor." She walked over to the counter, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pre-packaged plastic tray. Pulling over the mayo stand, she placed the kit on top and pulled back the paper covering.

"Okay, Jean," Dr. Gauche told her, "we now have to choose an amniocentesis site." He moved the transducer around for another minute or so until he found a good site, and then picked up a thin tube resembling a soda straw, which he gently pushed into her abdomen, leaving a small indentation on her skin. "Go ahead and scrub, Isabella," he said, walking over to the counter. As he donned a pair of sterile gloves, Isabella cleaned the site on Jean's abdomen with betadine.

Jean watched Isabella's circular hand movements as though mesmerized.

"You look nervous," the nurse said to her.

"I am."

"There's no need to be. Would you like me to hold your hand during the procedure?"

"Would you mind?"

"Not at all," Isabella replied with a smile.

"Thanks."

"All ready, Dr. Gauche," Isabella said, throwing away the used gauze and pulling off her own gloves.

"You can close your eyes if you like, Jean," Dr. Gauche suggested. "It'll all be over in a few minutes." He replaced the probe on her belly, re-checking the site to ensure that the baby had not moved.

As Isabella resumed her place at Jean's left and grasped her hand, Jean took a deep breath, and did as the doctor recommended. She squeezed Isabella's hand as she closed her eyes. She tried to relax her mind, and to think of something pleasant.

"Are you ready, Jean?" she heard Dr. Gauche say.

She opened her eyes and glanced over at him. He had picked up a syringe with a long needle and was moving toward her.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. "Are there usually any complications from the procedure?"

Dr. Gauche stopped in mid-motion. "You might experience some slight cramping, like gas pains, in the next day or so. You may also have a small amount of fluid leakage from the vagina-enough to make a small spot on the clothing. This is normal. If you experience any unusual symptoms-excessive fluid leakage, fever, severe cramps, or bleeding-you should let us know immediately. Now, shall we get started?" He sounded slightly impatient.

A memory assailed her then-of waking up with the front of her dress stained with blood, of pains so strong they knocked her off her feet. Lying on her kitchen floor in a pool of blood. The recollection made her shudder.

"Jean, are you all right?" She saw Isabella staring down at her, concern etched on her face. Jean could feel the beads of perspiration on her brow and upper lip.

"I . . . I can't," Jean whispered, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but I can't do this. Not today."

"As you wish," he replied, voice low, as he capped the syringe and placed it back on the tray. He pulled off his gloves with a snap as he got to his feet. "I have other patients to see. I will check back on you later." And with that, he was out the door.

"D-Did I say something wrong?" Jean asked.

"No. He's always a little . . . moody. And he doesn't like it when people defy his orders."

Jean's brow furrowed. "His orders?"

Isabella flushed. "You know, his treatment orders. His recommendations. Man's a control freak."

"Oh. I didn't mean to upset him."

"He'll get over it. But he's not what's worrying me right now. Are you okay? I was afraid you were going to pass out on me."

"I'll be all right. I just . . . I can't do anything to endanger this baby. After what happened during my previous pregnancy, I don't want to take any chances."

"That's perfectly understandable." Isabella gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. "You heard what he said, though-your baby appears perfectly healthy. That should make you very happy."

"It does," Jean said with a small smile.

"Well, let's get you cleaned up," Isabella said, using one of the drapes to wipe off the remaining gel from Jean's abdomen before lowering her gown and replacing the blanket. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Would you be able to call home for me? Try to get in touch with my husband, Scott?"

"Sure. Let me just grab a pen," the nurse said, reaching into her pocket. She scribbled down the numbers Jean recited. "I'll go try him now. I'm sure you're eager to have him here."

Jean nodded. "Were you able to find out anything about Bobby?"

Isabella stiffened. "There's, uhm, no word yet. I'm sorry."

"But you'll keep checking?"

"Of course."

Jean yawned. "Suddenly, I can barely keep my eyes open."

"Well, how about you get some sleep? And when you wake up, I'll see about getting you some real food-not that liquid sugar," she said, gesturing at the fluid bag.

"That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Isabella, for taking such good care of me. Of us," she added, palming her belly.

The young nurse smiled at her. "It's my pleasure."

End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 8**

"Robert, if this is some sort of sick practical joke, I, for one, find it in very poor taste," Ororo told him none-too-gently.

"Do I look like I'm laughing? I'm perfectly serious, 'Roro. I wouldn't joke about something like this. This-" he gestured at the exposed feet of the woman laying in the hospital bed- "is not Jean Summers."

"How do you know that?" Scott asked, taking a hesitant step closer. His gaze fixed on the bandaged face of the woman, lingered there as he watched her chest slowly rise and fall in sync with the hiss of the ventilator. Dr. Philips had painted a pretty bleak picture-and though she tried to remain optimistic, she was obviously preparing him for the worst. Now, though, Bobby was offering him the faintest glimmer of hope. And no matter how much of a stretch it might be, if there was even one iota of a chance that this was not Jean, that his wife was not laying on death's door-

He was finally able to tear his gaze away from the patient and look at Bobby. "Jean was in the car with you when the accident occurred. The paramedics found her body lying next to your unconscious one just beyond the wreckage, after you apparently carried her from the burning car."

"They found this woman's body next to me. With burns over fifty percent of her body-" He saw Scott visibly flinch and he hesitated, but only for a moment before forcing himself to go on, ". . . which included burns on her face, and her hands, thus eliminating her fingerprints. I lost consciousness both before I carried a woman's body out and after we got free of the wreckage. And after the moment of impact, before she was burned, I never got a good look at her face. So it's possible-"

"How on earth is what you're proposing possible?" Dr. Philips interjected. "Are you suggesting that somehow Jean's body was . . . switched?"

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Bobby replied somberly.

Dr. Philips shook her head in disbelief. "How? Why? And for what purpose? And I still don't understand what evidence you have to support this preposterous notion."

"Heidi, Mrs. Summers was wearing toenail polish this morning," Dr. Foxx explained. "Drake saw it himself-it was a distinctive color. This woman shows no evidence of polish on her toenails."

Dr. Philips regarded her colleague as though she had just stated that the Earth was flat. "That is your evidence!" she asked incredulously. "That's hardly reason enough to claim this isn't her."

"Explain it, then," Dr. Foxx demanded.

"The polish could have melted off in the heat of the fire," Dr. Philips suggested.

"Without damage to the nails or toes? And without any remnants whatsoever? Hardly likely. And don't you dare try to suggest that someone removed it at the hospital. Given the extent of her injuries, no one would have paid her toes any heed." Dr. Foxx walked around the foot of the bed to approach the other physician. "Heidi, I don't pretend to understand how it happened, or why. All I'm saying is that I believe there is enough doubt to warrant further investigation."

"Investigation? Ashley, no crime has been committed here."

"Last I heard, kidnapping was a felony," Bobby interjected.

Dr. Philips raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Is that what you two are suggesting? That Jean Summers was kidnapped, and this woman's body left in her place? But why in heaven's name-?"

"At the very least, to lead us off their track," Bobby replied. "Ideally, to have us believe her severely injured, possibly dead if their plan succeeded, and thus to have us never think to look for her. Knowing that if and when we did figure it out, the trail would be long cold."

"You believe this ridiculous yarn?" Dr. Philips asked her associate.

Slowly, Dr. Foxx nodded.

"Folie a deux," Dr. Philips muttered, glancing from Ashley to Bobby and back again.

Dr. Foxx forced a chuckle. "It makes sense, Heidi. In an Agatha Christie sort of way, anyway. Don't you think?"

Any trace of humor had long since vanished from Dr. Philips' face. Her eyes narrowed and her hands clenched into fists at her side. "Dr. Foxx, may I speak to you outside, please?" she asked, her tone painfully formal.

Dr. Foxx stiffened defensively. "Of course . . . Dr. Philips." She followed the other woman toward the door.

Thankfully, Heidi at least waited until she had pulled the door closed before she began her tirade. "Ashley, I don't know who to call the psych consult for first-that Drake guy, or you. What the hell have you been smoking?"

Scott watched the doctors leave, closing the door behind them. When he was certain they were gone, he turned to face Bobby and finally spoke freely. "Okay, Drake, cut to the chase here-because I'm really not in the mood for games. What's the real reason you don't think this is Jean?"

Bobby looked up at him questioningly. "Real reason?"

"Yes, real reason. I figured you were holding back in front of the doctors because you didn't want to reveal to them that we're mutants."

"Uhm, I wasn't really holding back, Scotty. The reason I gave them is the same one I'm giving to you."

"Robert, you cannot be serious!" Ororo exclaimed. "You are basing your assumption on . . . on. . . ." She gestured helplessly toward the bared feet.

"On toenail polish, or lack thereof," he finished for her. "That's what cinched it for me, yes. But it was more a gut feeling I got when I was sitting here with her. Scott, she's your wife. Do you think this is her?"

"Bobby, how the hell am I supposed to tell when her entire body's covered in bandages?"

"Well, what about. . . ?" He tapped his temple.

Scott shook his head. "When Jean's not conscious, our mindlink is not maintained. So I can't sense whether it's her or not." He walked over to the bed, gently lay a hand on the top of the woman's head, stroking it. "Believe me, Bobby, I wish to God this wasn't Jean. But other than your little half-baked leap of faith, what reason do we have to believe otherwise?"

"Just look at her, Scott. Something's off."

"Robert, the woman in this bed is Jean's height, roughly her weight. She has the same color hair-" Ororo fingered one of the few locks that peaked out from beneath the bandages. "I see no reason to think it is not-"

"Her proportions are off," Bobby insisted. "C'mon, Scotty, I can't be the only one to see that."

Scott regarded the woman silently. Slowly, he let go of her head, and stood up, ramrod straight.

"Scott?" Ororo questioned, approaching him.

"He's right," Scott said softly. "It's subtle, Ororo, but enough to be a noticeable difference."

"I do not understand. Are you two saying that this woman's figure does not match Jean's? What, her hips are too wide, her waist too narrow?"

"It's true, Ororo. In general, this woman is a little thinner than Jean. She doesn't look as toned."

"I do not believe what I am hearing. Robert, Scott, please listen to yourselves. Jean is my best friend; I do not want her to be laying here any more than either of you do." She took a step closer, placed a hand on Scott's arm. "Please, my friend, I know this is difficult. . . . But we must be realistic. We cannot fashion stories of imposters or body doubles just to ease our pain."

"They're not stories, Storm!" Bobby insisted. "And we can prove it."

"And just what would you propose?"

"I was thinking we could have Betsy or Charles scan her mind."

"Unfortunately, Charles is visiting Lilandra in Shi'ar space," Ororo pointed out. "And Betsy is in England."

"Let's ask her to come back to the States then."

"That will take too much time," Scott put in. "If this really isn't Jean, and she's out there somewhere, then the longer we wait, the colder her trail gets."

"There's gotta be a closer telepath," Bobby said.

"There's Nate," Scott suggested. "He's not nearly as powerful as even Betsy, but he should be able to recognize Jean's thought pattern."

"Do you know how to get in touch with him?" Storm asked.

Scott nodded. "It could still take a while, though."

"What if we were to procure a DNA sample?" Ororo suggested. "I am sure that Henry could compare it to her file, and determine if it is a match."

"Now you're talking, 'Ro!" Bobby smiled at her.

"Goddess help me for going along with this," she muttered, shaking her head.

"I'll go try to reach Nate," Scott said. "Ororo, can you call Hank?"

"Of course."

"Bobby, you seem to be on friendly terms with Dr. Foxx-"

"I don't know if I'd call it 'friendly', but-"

"Regardless, you seem to have convinced her to share our doubts as to whether this is Jean. Can you see about having her get us a blood sample?"

"Me?"

"Robert, do you not want to determine if this is truly Jean?" Ororo chimed in.

Slowly, Bobby nodded. "All right. One way or another, I'll get it."

"Thank you," Scott told him. He looked down once more at the woman in the bed. "If this really is you, Jeanie, then at least Nate will allow me to 'speak' to you." He bent down and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

Just then, the door swung open and the trio turned to see a short, stocky figure stomp inside. "Why the fuck didn't anybody call me!" he growled.

"Logan," Ororo soothed.

But he raised a staying hand as he walked past her. "I'm sorry, Slim," he said, approaching the bedside. "Aw, shit, Red. . . !" The anger dissipated as his face softened. He took her bandaged hand in his own, held it, caressing it with his thumb. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

The stench of charred flesh was nearly overwhelming to his super-heightened senses. Just knowing that it was Jean's body that had been burned-that such horrible odors reeking of pain and mutilation and lingering death were coming from a woman who held such a dear place in his heart-made him want to lash out and maim the nearest person.

His free hand clenching and releasing repeatedly at his side, Logan once again took a long draught of air, trying to calm his nerves, center himself.

He froze suddenly.

His eyes snapped open. He took another breath. And another. It took them a moment to realize that he was sniffing.

"Well, I'll be damned."

"Logan, what is it?" Scott asked expectantly.

Logan shook his head in wonder. "This woman," he said, indicating the hand he still held, "ain't Jeanie. This ain't your wife, Cyke."

"Are you certain?" Ororo asked.

"It's similar, 'Ro-sorta like they could be sisters. But it's definitely not her."

"I told you!" Bobby declared triumphantly.

Logan spun around. "You knew this wasn't her, Icepop?"

"Let us just say that Robert was attempting to convince us of that notion, yes."

"It's a long, sordid tale-involving women's cosmetics-that I'm sure you'd much rather skip," Bobby said.

"What I wanna know is how this happened, so we can figure out where the hell Jeanie is."

Bobby repeated the story of his day with Jean, and what he could remember surrounding the events of the accident.

"But we still don't know where Jean is, who took her, and for what purpose," Scott concluded, running a hand through his hair. "I don't even know where to start."

"I think I got an idea, at least as to the who," Logan told them. "Which'll probably tell us why."

"How on earth do you know who?" Ororo questioned.

"'Cause'a the scent. It was hard to make out at first, because of the stink of burned skin. But the scent ain't Jeanie's, of that I'm certain. But it is familiar."

"You recognize this woman's scent?" Scott asked.

"It ain't a perfect match, but it's damned close."

"Who, Logan? Who is she?"

Logan actually seemed hesitant. He gazed down at the bandage-clad woman and sighed. "Maddie."

"Madelyne Pryor?" Ororo asked incredulously.

All the color drained from Scott's face. "Logan, you can't be serious. Maddie's dead. We all saw her die."

"Cyke, I ain't suggestin' that this is Maddie. I'm just saying it smells an awful lot like her. She always had a certain . . . tang . . . about her. Like Jeanie, only different . . . contaminated. Tainted."

Scott's hands balled into fists at his sides, even as his jaw clenched. "Sinister," he spat.

Slowly, Logan nodded. "That's who I'd put my money on."

"So you think this woman is a clone of Jean? Somehow planted to make us think she was injured in the car accident, while the real Jean was kidnapped?"

"That was our working scenario even before Logan showed up," Bobby pointed out. "Now it makes even more sense, don't you think?"

"We still need to determine if this is, in fact, Jean's clone," Scott said. "No offense, Logan, but if we're going to find Jean, then we have to make sure we're not following a false lead."

"So shall we proceed with the original plan?" Ororo asked. "Have Henry analyze this woman's DNA?"

Scott nodded. "I'm still going to contact Nate. At the very least, he can use his telepathy to help track her down. Bobby, we need you to get that blood sample. Ororo, give Hank a heads-up to the situation, so he can start prepping whatever needs to be done in the lab. Logan, can you check out the crash site? See if you can get any leads as to how Jean was taken?"

"You got it, Cyke."

"All right, people, you each know what you've got to do. Let's get to work."

**End Chapter 8**


	9. Chapter 9

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 9**

Jean had been lying on her back, fast asleep, when something awoke her. She peered through the darkness of the room, over at the door, where a thin stream of light coursed inside, across the tile floor.

"Who's there?" she called out.

She heard nothing, saw no movement. Still, she could feel a presence. She could sense that someone was in the room.

"I know you're there. Show yourself!"

He appeared then, as though materializing from the ether. He approached the bed, and terror filled Jean, making it impossible for her to move.

She watched helplessly as a long-fingered hand reached down toward her, the pale skin illuminated by moonlight seeping in through the blinds. His palm came to rest on top of her swollen belly, fingers curling around it, possessively. His cool touch sent a shiver running through her. From within her womb, she felt her unborn child kick hard, as though in protest.

A loud laugh filled the room, reverberated off the walls. "This one is strong, just as I hoped."

An icy chill gripped Jean's heart. Somehow, she managed to find her voice. "Get away from me and my baby," she spat, hands clenching into fists at her sides.

The cold laughter once again filled her ears. "This remains your child for only a short while longer. Your job is nearly complete. You should be commended, for having served your purpose admirably." He increased the pressure on his fingertips ever-so-slightly. As if in response to his touch, Jean felt a tightening begin at her back, quickly extending across her sides toward her belly. She gasped.

He laughed again. "Ah, I see it will not be long now."

"Who are you? What do you want from me?" she asked, panting, as a cold sweat beaded her brow and upper lip.

"Ah, how quickly you forget me, Jean Grey-Summers. As for my purpose, I would think that perfectly obvious," he replied, taking a step closer. His face still remained largely in shadow, but the moonlight reflected off of the white of his toothy grin and his dark, dark eyes. Familiar eyes. Evil eyes. "Soon, this child shall be mine."

"No!" Jean tried to move, to push him away, to strike out. But she found that her wrists were bound to her sides, her ankles to the foot of the bed.

"I suggest you save your strength, my dear. You have one final task to perform." His baleful laughter filled the room. "I shall return as the time grows closer." With a final stroke of her belly, he took his leave. His exit was punctuated by a sharp spasm twisting through her abdomen, forcing a scream from her lips.

Jean awoke, screaming. She sat up in bed, hand flying to her belly, no longer swollen with child. At first she feared that the man had made good on his threat-but then she remembered where she was, that she was only just over three months along. It had been only a nightmare.

A moment later, the door burst open, and Isabella rushed inside. "Jean, are you all right? I heard you scream. . . ." She hurried to the bed, where Jean sat, pale and sweat-drenched, breathing heavily.

"N-nightmare," Jean panted.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There was a strange man, standing in here with me, in the dark. He . . . touched me." Her arms wrapped around her middle protectively. "He wanted my baby. I- I think I was full term. I went into labor. And he was going to take my baby." Her mouth trembled as she felt hot tears sting her eyes. "He wanted to steal my baby."

"Shh," Isabella said, perching on the side of the bed. She began to rub Jean's back. "It's okay, Jean. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. You're safe. You baby's safe, growing inside of you. Everything's going to be fine."

Sniffling, Jean nodded. "I- I'm sorry. It just . . . it felt so real. So terrifyingly real."

"Well, it wouldn't be a nightmare if we didn't believe it was real at the time," Isabella replied, still stroking Jean's back. "Here," she said, offering her a box of tissues.

"Thanks," Jean replied, taking one to wipe her eyes. She regarded the young nurse for a moment. "Isabella, please don't take this the wrong way, but what are you still doing here? Don't you ever go home?"

Isabella smiled. "I prefer to work twelve-hour shifts. Why, are you sick of me already?"

"Oh no-far from it. You've been wonderful. Thank you for everything."

"It's been my pleasure. Here, I'll leave these with you," she said, placing the box of tissues next to Jean as she got to her feet and smoothed the skirt of her uniform.

"Were you able to get in touch with Scott?" she asked, blowing her nose. "I thought he'd be here by now."

Isabella began to fuss with the mussed blanket, tugging it back into place. "There was no answer."

Jean's brow furrowed. Was he away on a mission? "Did you try the other number-the number for the school where we work?"

"Yes, but I only got a machine. I left a message."

"Strange. . . ."

"Are you hungry? How about I bring you some food?" the nurse offered.

"I would love a cup of herbal tea if you've got any."

"I think I'll be able to track some down. Any requests for a meal? Have any weird cravings yet?"

Jean smiled. "I'm not very hungry right now, thanks. Maybe a little later."

"Sure. One cup of herbal tea coming right up," the nurse said, heading for the door.

"Isabella," Jean called after her.

She stopped and turned back around. "Yes?"

"Any word on Bobby? Is he out of surgery yet?"

The nurse visibly stiffened. She grasped her hands in front of her, fingers lacing tightly.

"Isabella. . . ?" Jean felt her heart in her throat.

"Jean, there's, uhm. . . . there's something I need to tell you."

"About Bobby?"

She nodded as she slowly approached the bed. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Jean brought a hand to her trembling mouth.

"Jean, Bobby . . . he didn't make it. I'm so sorry."

"Oh God." Jean blinked, even as tears streamed down her cheeks. "He . . . he didn't survive the surgery?"

"Uhm. . . ."

Jean looked up at her questioningly.

"Jean, he . . . he never made it to surgery. He was already gone when they brought him in."

"What! But you told me he had to go to emergency surgery. Why did you lie to me?"

"I'm sorry, Jean. I- I didn't want to upset you. I was going to tell you after I was sure you were stable, but then you were worried about the baby, and I didn't want to add any more stress until we were sure the baby was okay. It wasn't my intention to keep things from you. I was just trying to do what was best for you. I'm so sorry about your friend, Jean. So very sorry."

"I- I can't believe he's gone," Jean murmured, shaking her head. "I can't believe Bobby's gone. . . ." Lowering her head, she began to sob softly.

Once again, Isabella sat down on the edge of the bed, this time facing Jean. Wordlessly, she held her arms open, and Jean gladly reached for her. Isabella held her, gently rubbing her back, issuing soft, soothing sounds, as Jean wept for the loss of one of her oldest and dearest friends.

**End Chapter 9**


	10. Chapter 10

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 10**

"Here're those labs you were waiting for, Dr. Foxx."

"Thanks, Paula." Taking the paper, she scanned down the columns of electrolytes. "Shit! The BUN, creat, and phosphorus are all through the roof. Goddammit."

"You want me to up his fluids?"

"Yeah, let's diurese the hell out of him. I have a bad feeling, though, that he's gonna need dialysis."

"Should I call upstairs to Nephrology?"

"Nah, that's okay, let's see what his 'lytes are after a few hours of fluids. I'll let the next shift make the call. Thanks, Paula."

"Sure thing, Dr. Foxx."

As the nurse walked away, Dr. Foxx slammed down the file in which she had been writing. "What a lovely end to my day," she muttered, searching for her pen. She looked on the counter top, under the table, in the file. Exacerbated, she ran her hand over her hair-and found her pen, sticking out from the bun at the back of her head. Frowning, she continued her paperwork.

"Hey, Ashley."

She looked up to see a tall, lanky medicine resident heading toward her.

"Hey Chris, what's up?"

"I've got a question for you," he said, perching on the counter beside her file folder and tucking a clipboard beneath his arm.

"Shoot."

"You know that MVA victim you transferred to me last night?"

"Be more specific, Chris. I had three last night."

"The young guy with the concussion, smoke inhalation, and fractured ribs. Robert-"

"Drake? Yeah, I remember him. How's he doing?" she asked, continuing to write in her file.

"He's doing fine. I kept him overnight and for the day for observation. My plan was to send him home this evening."

"Why do I sense a but coming on?"

"I just stopped by his room to have him sign his discharge papers, but he was gone."

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"Just what I said: gone. Missing. We looked in the bathroom, the lounge, the cafeteria. Hell, even the chapel. There's no sign of him. The nurses have no idea where he is."

"And you're telling me this because. . . ?"

"Because I was hoping you might have some idea where he could have gotten to."

"How should I know?"

"I don't know, it just seemed like you had taken a . . . personal interest in him."

"Excuse me?" She arched an eyebrow.

"I don't mean like that, Ashley." His fair complexion blushed crimson. "What I meant was that you seemed pretty friendly with him when you briefed me on his case. You usually don't take more than a passing interest in your patients."

"He seemed like a nice enough guy. And he was chatty. Where's the harm in actually talking with your patient?"

"No argument there. I just thought that since you actually said more than two words to him yesterday afternoon, you might have an idea of where he wandered off to."

"Chris, I really don't-" She stopped in mid-sentence. "Well, I can think of one place he might be."

"Really? Where-?" Just then, his beeper went off. Unclipping it, he stared at the number. "Shit! One of my patients is coding. I gotta go. Do me a fave, Ash-have him sign these forms for me? We really need his bed." He shoved the clipboard at her as he got to his feet.

"But Chris, I'm off in twenty-"

"Thanks, Ash-I owe you one!" Chris shouted with a wave before sprinting out of the ER.

"No, this makes more like three," she muttered under her breath as she placed the clipboard aside and tried to finish her paperwork.

"Hey, Dr. Foxx," Paula said, grabbing a file from the bin on the desk beside her as she walked by, "weren't you off at four?"

"Yeah," she muttered. "Why, what time is it?"

"Almost a quarter after. Get out of here while you can. There's a GSW on the way."

"You have enough people?"

"Go!" Paula called over her shoulder.

Smiling, Dr. Foxx quickly scribbled a few more lines into the record she had started and then snapped the file folder closed before dropping it into the appropriate bin. With a stretch and a sigh, she headed to the locker room. She hung up her lab coat and stethoscope, grabbed her jacket and bag, and headed for the exit closest to the parking lot. She was halfway out the door when she turned back to the nurse's station. She stared down at the clipboard Chris had left with her, contemplating. She had nearly convinced herself that it was no longer any of her concern when her conscience won out. With a frown, she snagged the clipboard with its accompanying paperwork and headed for the elevator bank.

A few minutes later, she stepped onto the fifth floor and made her way to the Burn Unit. Approaching the nurse's station, she found a familiar face typing at the computer.

"Hey Marisa."

The nurse looked up from the keyboard. "Hello, Doctor. May I help you?"

"I was wondering if you've happened to have seen a former patient of mine? Young man-mid-twenties, light brown hair-"

"Mr. Drake, you mean? The one you brought up to visit the woman in 513?"

"Yes. Have you seen him recently?"

"He's sitting in there with her now," Marisa said, resuming her typing. "Has been, since this morning. He won't leave her bedside-except when we need to change her bandages. He steps outside the room until we're done. Holding a silent vigil it seems." She sadly shook her head.

"Thanks, Marisa," Dr. Foxx said, already walking down the corridor toward the last room on the right. She stopped outside the door and peered inside. Sure enough, Bobby was sitting at the bedside, facing the bandaged form that lay sleeping.

Maybe I shouldn't bother him, she thought. But then she looked down at the clipboard she held. Chris said we need the bed. I'm doing this for the good of another patient. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Bobby did not move from the bedside. He did not even bother to look in her direction. "It's too soon for a bandage change," he said. "Time for some more bloodletting?"

"What, that sample I sneaked you wasn't enough?"

"Huh?" Bobby turned in his seat. "Dr. Foxx? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she asked, approaching him. She looked down at him, and her brow furrowed when she saw his arm wrapped around his torso. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's just my ribs. Dr. Rollings said I'm gonna be sore for several weeks yet."

"He give you anything for the pain?"

"Yup. Ibuprofen," Bobby replied, patting the pill bottle in the breast pocket of his button-down shirt.

"Well, let me know if it's not doing the trick, and I'll write you a script for something a little stronger."

He arched an eyebrow in her direction. "Why, Doc . . . I'm touched."

She pursed her lips. "I just don't like to see anyone suffer, that's all. Why do you think I became a doctor?"

"Oh, let's see . . . Respect the degree entails, gratitude of countless people for saving their or their loved ones' lives, a six-figure salary. . . ."

She laughed at that. "Yeah, I'll try to remember how glamorous my job is next time I'm getting puked on while I work the graveyard shift."

"Well, at least working in the ER is exciting."

"That one, I'll give you. When things go well, it's an incredible high. But when they go bad, it's actually quite depressing." With a sigh, she glanced over to the bed. "How's she doing?"

Bobby shook his head. "Not good. They said her blood work shows that her kidney values are up, that she's not producing enough urine."

"They worried about renal failure?"

He nodded. "Said we need to consider dialysis. And that her lungs are filling with fluid."

"Damn."

"Precisely."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Drake."

"You and me both, Doc."

She licked her lips before voicing her next question. "How . . . far is Scott willing to go?"

Bobby sighed as he slowly blinked. He did not meet her gaze as he spoke, instead focusing his glance on the woman who lay before him. "Well, Jeanie has a living will, with a DNR. But-"

"But you and Scott and your other friends don't believe this woman to be Jean Summers."

"Right."

"And you've no idea who she is?"

He seemed to hesitate a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "Just some Jane Doe."

Dr. Foxx let out a deep breath. "Drake, I don't mean to sound insensitive here, but to be perfectly honest, given the extent of her injuries. . . . unfortunately, I don't think there's much medical science can do for her anymore. A DNR is probably the most humane decision."

Slowly, he nodded. "I know. No one should have to go on suffering like this."

She hesitated before speaking again. "If you don't mind my asking . . . if this woman is just some stranger to you, and your friend is still missing somewhere-" she was not even going to pretend that she could get her mind around that one- "then why have you spent the day sitting here at her bedside?"

Bobby sighed as he slowly shook his head. He debated about telling the doctor the real reason he was sitting here. To reveal personal information, or to just make a flippant remark to deflect her inquisition? The latter would be much easier-and so much more his style. And yet, for some reason, he felt that he needed to tell her the truth.

He cleared his throat. "While we were driving home, Jeanie and I were talking. She was ribbing me in this big sister way of hers. She's always been a bit of a mother hen type, y'know?"

He glanced at Dr. Foxx, and sensing his hesitation, she offered an encouraging nod of understanding.

"So," he continued, "she made a comment about the way I was driving, which somehow ultimately turned into a conversation about relationships. . . ." He managed a small smile and gently shook his head. "Anyway, she wasn't completely ragging on me-Jeanie being Jeanie, she always finds a tactful if not completely offhanded way to get her point across without truly offending."

Dr. Foxx smiled. "From the brief time I met her last spring, and the way you describe her, she sounds like such a warm, caring person."

Nodding, Bobby met the doctor's gaze. "They don't come better than Jeanie."

He looked away suddenly-almost self-consciously, she thought. Then his gaze became distant, as though he were straining to see something far away.

"Anyway, even if she didn't come right out and say it as such, I know she was getting on my case to act my age."

He sighed then, the action causing his shoulders to slump almost imperceptibly.

"I've been thinking about that a lot, actually-mulling over in my brain the idea of taking responsibility for one's actions. 'Cause the truth is, actions have consequences. Ones we have to live with for the rest of our lives."

Dr. Foxx nodded knowingly. She had seen that truth brought to light countless times in the ER. Car accidents caused by someone DUI. Drug-user mothers giving birth to addicted babies. Kids playing with handguns. The list went on and on.

"Well," Bobby continued, "even if it wasn't intentional, I was driving the car when it crashed. When we were hurt. Purposely or not, when it comes down to it, I'm partially responsible for this woman lying here like this . . . dying." His voice caught on the last word, and he took a moment to regain his composure.

As he focused on the bandaged figure lying in the bed in front of him, she was struck at that moment by the dichotomy of this man. On the one hand, he exuded a vulnerability that came with youth as well as the emotional subtext of the words he was expressing. At the same time, there was a maturity evident through the self-deprecation that could only come from one who was aware of his strengths and weaknesses-someone who had taken the time to ponder his place in the world.

For a person whom she thought she had pegged during the first minute of their conversation, Dr. Foxx now realized how much more complicated he was. And as a woman who prided herself on her ability to reason, she wanted nothing more than the opportunity to discover and fit together the pieces of the puzzle that comprised Bobby Drake. She had to wonder, though, if that was a desire to satisfy an intellectual craving, or if it was instead being driven by emotion.

He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for what was to come next. "I have no idea who she is, or how she ended up at the scene of the accident. And somehow I doubt I ever will know."

His voice had grown soft, and she found herself taking an unconscious step closer to better hear him.

"What I do know is that she is a living, breathing person. A woman who had her own likes and dislikes, her own hopes and dreams. An act of fate took that all away from her. And right now, she's alone in the world. If our positions were reversed, and it was me lying in that hospital bed, I wouldn't want to be alone . . . in the end. I don't think she should be, either."

She stared back at him, dumbfounded. When she first met him in the ER, she thought him a flip, obstinate bastard. When he revealed his concern for his injured friend, she quickly realized that he was a decent human being. Her opinion then changed to that of a man with perhaps a few screws loose when he tried to convince her that the wounded woman was not really his friend. Then, after meeting his other friends and having him try to convince her to obtain a blood sample, she came to the conclusion that recent developments were not the ravings of a madman but rather were steeped in rational-albeit bizarre-circumstances. Now, though, hearing his heartfelt words, listening to him practically confess his feelings of guilt for causing the grave injuries to the patient lying before them, made her chest tighten and her throat ache.

Blinking back sudden wetness in her eyes, she sought the appropriate reply. Nothing-absolutely nothing-came to mind. So instead, she slowly nodded her head.

The room was quiet then, save for the sounds of the ventilator and heart monitor. After a few minutes, Bobby finally spoke.

"You never did answer my question, Doc."

"What question was that?"

"What brings you here?"

"I was looking for you, actually."

"Be still my heart," he replied dramatically, clutching his chest. A moment after he said it, though, he flushed and bowed his head.

"It seems you went AWOL on Dr. Rollings," she continued, trying to lighten the mood. "He wanted to discharge you, but couldn't since you were MIA. Apparently, he had them searching the hospital top to bottom for you."

"Good thing he's a doctor and not a detective, eh?"

"Don't be too hard on him. The residents around here are entirely over-worked. So, anyway, it seems they need your bed. If you'd be so kind as to sign here on the dotted line-" she held out the clipboard- "you're free to go."

"Peachy. You got a pen?" he asked, taking the clipboard from her.

"Yep." She handed him one from her scrub pocket.

"Just this one spot?" he asked, scribbling his signature.

"No, actually, there are several." She walked over to the chair, leaned down beside him to point to the paperwork. "Also here," she said, reaching across him to flip to a second page. Her finger brushed his hand, and she was startled by how cool his skin felt. After he signed, she flipped to a third and final page. "And here."

"Geez, you'd think I was signing away my first born or something."

"Actually, just your soul," she deadpanned.

All that got out of him was a cocked eyebrow.

"Okay, okay, so Jerry Seinfeld I'm not. I'll leave the humor to you, Drake," she said, taking back the pen and clipboard.

Sensing her discomfort, he sought to quickly put her at ease. "Hey, I barely know my ass from my elbow when it comes to anatomy and science. So you just stick to the medicine you know best, and I'll keep cracking the jokes."

She graced him with a smile. "Okay."

Grinning back, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Stiff?" she asked.

"Just a little."

She glanced at her watch. "Just how long have you been sitting here, Drake? Marisa said you'd been here since this morning."

"Yep."

"You've been here all day?" she asked incredulously.

"Uh huh."

"Without a break?"

"Yeah. Well, I did get up to pee once."

"Have you at least eaten?"

He shook his head. "Not hungry."

"C'mon, Drake, this isn't healthy. How do you expect your body to heal if you don't take proper care of yourself?"

"I'll eat later."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Forgive me if I don't believe you." She sighed. "How about I buy you dinner? I can have Marisa page me if there's any change in her condition," she said, gesturing toward the patient.

"Thanks, Doc, but I'm really not hungry."

"Drake, you've gotta eat. Besides, visiting hours are almost over."

He shook his head. "Actually, I talked Marisa into letting me stay. So long as I leave when they have to do bandage changes or exams, I can sit here as long as I want."

"You are gonna at least go home to get some sleep, right?"

He shrugged noncommittally.

"Christ!" She threw up her arms in exacerbation. "There's not any reasoning with you, is there?"

"Nope."

"Can I at least bring you some food? A cup of coffee even?"

He looked up at her. Though he managed for his expression to remain determined, he was fighting a grin. Nonetheless, she could tell from the way the smile reached his eyes that he was appreciative of her concern. "Thanks for the kind offer and everything, Doc, but I'm fine. You look like you could use a hot meal and a soft bed, though."

She met his eyes, understood the true meaning of his words: 'Thanks, but I really want to be alone right now. So get the hell out.' Slowly, she nodded. "All right." Gathering her things, she started to leave. As she passed his chair, she felt his hand on her arm. As she turned toward him, his cool fingers slid down her forearm until they wrapped around her hand.

She looked down at him, captured suddenly by his dark gaze. "I really appreciate the kindness you've shown me, Doc," he whispered, even as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It's really meant a lot to me. I- I just thought you should know that."

Throat suddenly dry, she found herself unable to move, barely able to muster a coherent thought. Finally, she managed a smile. "It's been my pleasure," she replied softly. "I only wish I could have done more." Her eyes flicked over to the bedside.

He nodded knowingly. "You and me both. Thanks again." He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand before releasing it and turning back to the bed.

That one small gesture sent a rush of excitement through her. But she quickly tried to fight it. With a deep breath, she managed to calm her racing heart, to focus her thoughts. Steeling herself, she headed for the door. "Good night, Drake," she called.

"'Night, Doc."

And without looking back, she walked out of the room.

**End Chapter 10**


	11. Chapter 11

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 11**

After pulling into the staff section of the hospital parking lot, Dr. Foxx downed the last sips of her morning caffeine fix before grabbing her things and heading inside. Glancing at her watch, she bypassed the Emergency Room, instead taking the elevator up to the fifth floor. She flashed her ID to the nurse behind the station in the Burn Unit on her way to Room 513. She barely glanced through the window in the door before entering.

"Morning, Drake. Guess what I brought for y-" Her breath caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her: Bobby Drake sat in the chair at the bedside, his back to the door, much as he had the previous evening. Only now, the bed was empty.

He did not react to the sound of her voice. He merely kept staring straight ahead, at the unoccupied bed.

"Drake, what happened?"

It took him a moment to reply. "She's . . . gone."

"Oh God. I'm so sorry." Dropping her backpack to the floor and placing the paper bag on a side-table, she pulled the other chair over toward his. She bowed her head, folding her hands in her lap, as she summoned her courage. "When?" she asked softly.

"A little over an hour ago. They only just took the body away." Still, he stared straight ahead, as though he were still looking at her.

"Were you here . . . when it happened?"

He slowly nodded. "I was sitting right here, holding her hand. Talking to her, as she slipped away. The heart monitor started to sound funny. Then suddenly it stopped beeping. A nurse came in to shut it off. She called a doctor, who listened to her chest, and pronounced her."

"I'm so very sorry," she said again, leaning forward in her chair and placing a hand on his arm.

He shrugged. "Hey, it's not like I even knew her, right? She was just some Jane Doe. Some mystery woman without a name or an identity. A nobody."

Dr. Foxx flinched inwardly at the harshness of his words. "At the very least, she was somebody's daughter. For all we know, she was somebody's sister, maybe even somebody's wife, someone's mother."

This time it was Bobby who cringed. "Yeah. Sure. Maybe."

He sounded completely unconvinced. What wasn't he telling her?

"What the hell does it matter anyway?" he continued. "She ended up nameless, faceless, without a past, no hope for a future. In the end, she was alone."

How had his attitude managed to change so much in only a few hours? Dr. Foxx wondered. Whereas the previous evening he at least seemed hopeful, now he sounded utterly defeated.

"But that's not true," the doctor countered. "She wasn't alone. You were here with her."

"Fat lot of good that did her. She's still dead."

"At least she isn't suffering any more. There's that."

"Forgive me if I'm not able to find any good in what happened here," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "I fail to see anything positive come from a situation where a woman is practically burned alive and then left to cling to life by a tenuous thread until it unravels and breaks. Where we can do nothing to ease her suffering, to keep her alive. Where all we can do is stand by helplessly and watch her slip away." He slowly shook his head.

He had managed to close his heart off to the situation, to distance himself from the pain, she realized. A typical defense mechanism.

"What you've done, Drake, hardly qualifies as nothing. Just look at what you did for this woman: You stayed with her to the very end. It may not seem like much, but I'm sure, deep down, she could sense your presence. And when it was time, she could feel you here. And maybe then she wasn't so scared anymore. When it was time to let go, she was ready. I'm sure your being here made all the difference. She was very lucky to have you here with her."

"Lucky? I'm the one who put her here. I'm the reason Jeanie's missing. At least one woman is dead-by my hand." He bowed his head, clasping his hands between his knees.

So that was what this came down to: not simply guilt over this mystery woman's death, but a feeling of responsibility for his friend's disappearance.

"You'll find her, Drake. You will. She's out there, somewhere. It's just a matter of time. All you need is a little faith."

"I- I just can't help thinking . . . what if the same thing happened to Jeanie? What if she's lying in another hospital bed somewhere? What if she's all alone? What if no one's there to be with her, to hold her hand, as she slips away?"

"If that's true-and I pray to God that it's not-then hopefully there's someone just like you there with her." She placed her hand on top of his.

"I hope so, Doc," he whispered. "I really hope so."

They sat in silence for a while. She took the opportunity to study his face. He had several days' worth of stubble on his cheeks and jaw, down his throat. There were dark circles under his eyes-a clear indication of how little he had slept recently. His light brown hair was rather unkempt-as though he had been worrying it repeatedly with his fingers. He looked like he could use a hot shower and a few days sleep-not to mention a decent meal.

"Hey, Drake, I brought you something."

He looked over at her, a look of mild curiosity flitting across his features. "Oh?"

Letting go of his hand, she reached behind her for the brown paper bag she had brought with her. She waved it in front of him. "Breakfast."

"Is that coffee I smell?" His face brightened.

"It most certainly is. And a bagel."

"A bagel?"

She nodded.

"With cream cheese?"

Another nod.

"It's not that fake fat free stuff is it?"

"Hell, no. If you're gonna use cream cheese, you gotta go all the way."

He smirked. "A woman after my own heart." He took the bag from her, opened it, and peered inside. "Ooo." He pulled the wrapped bagel out of the bag and started to open the paper.

"How about we go to the cafeteria to eat?" she suggested.

"You don't have to work?"

"I've still got a little time before my shift starts. We can talk some more if you'd like."

"Did you eat already?" he asked.

"Yeah, on the drive in. But I could always go for another cup of coffee."

He took a moment to glance at the empty bed. Finally, he sighed and nodded his head. "All right, sure." Replacing the bagel in the bag, he slowly got to his feet, and she did the same.

Picking up her knapsack, she headed for the door. "You okay, Drake?" she asked, watching how stiffly he moved.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I've just been sitting too long. And I think I'm overdue for some Advil."

She held the door for him as he stepped out into the hallway.

"Thanks for the breakfast, Doc. Guess I must seem especially pathetic the way you've been taking pity on me."

"You're hardly pathetic. And it's not pity. Far from it." As they approached the elevator, she pressed the down button.

"What, then? Surely you don't usually track down patients-especially when they're no longer even under your care. And somehow I doubt that you bring food to any of 'em."

The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.

"No, I think this is a first for me. You ought to feel honored."

"Oh, I do. I'm just curious as to why I've been singled out. Is it my charming personality? My stellar good looks? My wicked sense of humor?"

"That would be no, no, and no. Let's just say I can sympathize with your cause: I know what it's like to have someone close to you seriously injured. I know how important it is to have someone to talk to, to be there for you. Not that I expect you to talk to me per se. I just meant. . . ." Blushing, she stumbled on her words. She was grateful when the elevator opened and she could escape into the hallway.

She had barely gotten a few steps away when she felt his hand on her elbow. Turning, her eyes came level with his and she absently realized that he was only an inch or so taller than she.

He was staring at her, his face unusually somber. His hand slid down her arm, his fingers closing around her own. "I think I know exactly what you mean, Doc. And I really appreciate all you've done for me. I'd say it goes above and beyond the call of duty. I just want you to know that it means a lot."

She stared into his eyes as though entranced. She had the feeling that it was not very often that Bobby Drake expressed such a serious, heartfelt sentiment that was not disguised behind a joke or sarcastic comment. That knowledge touched her deeply-as much, if not more so, than his actual words.

After a few moments, she cleared her throat. "Well, just so long as word doesn't get out. I don't want all my patients expecting me to bring them breakfast in the morning."

He chuckled. "It'll be out little secret. Now, c'mon, let go sit down. I'm starving." Releasing her hand, he headed for the cafeteria. Smiling, she walked with him, side-by-side.

**End Chapter 11**


	12. Chapter 12

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 12**

Jean lay in bed on her side, her good arm tucked beneath her pillow, her bandaged arm on top of the covers. She had been trying to sleep for hours now, but to no avail. She could not stop thinking about Bobby. Could it really be that morning that they were laughing, fooling around, talking? And now he was gone. Dead. No more funny comments, no more practical jokes. No more warm smiles, or even warmer hugs-ironic, given his mutant powers.

She swiped at her cheeks with her finger. The movement made her draw a sharp breath. Her arm was throbbing. It was no wonder she could not fall asleep, the way her burns ached. Though she would never think of doing anything to endanger her unborn child, right now she really wished that she could take painkillers-or at the very least, something to help her sleep.

She tried to allow her mind to relax, attempting some meditation techniques. Every time she was on the verge of sleep, though, thoughts of her recent nightmare would resurface, and she was once again wide awake, afraid to relive the horrible images of her dream world. Mere thoughts of the evil smile sent a shiver down her spine. She pulled the covers up to her chin, trying not to jostle her arm.

At some point, she heard the door open. She held her breath, prepared to strike out and flee if necessary.

Get a hold of yourself, Jean, she thought. That was just a dream. The bogeyman is not coming for you, or your baby.

She watched as Isabella quietly crept into the room. The nurse walked over to the bedside to check the IV pump and other equipment. Glancing down at the bed, she saw Jean looking back up at her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I can't sleep."

"Oh? Do you need anything?"

"Nothing you can give me," Jean replied, trying to roll onto her back. She bit back a gasp as she moved her injured arm.

"You're in pain," Isabella said simply.

"A little," Jean admitted.

"A lot, if it's preventing you from sleeping."

Jean sighed. "I'd better get used to it. It's not like there's anything that can be done about it."

"There might be something. . . ." Isabella hesitated, biting her bottom lip.

"What, you mean that cream you put on earlier? It helps for a little while, but it won't last."

"I don't mean the cream." She turned around, glanced at the door as though ensuring that no one was nearby, before approaching the bed. When she spoke next, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Jean, I know a way to ease your pain. But you have to promise not to tell anyone-most especially Dr. Gauche."

Curiosity piqued, Jean sat up. "What is it?"

"First, you have to promise."

"Is it legal?"

Isabella smiled. "It's nothing like that. It doesn't involve drugs."

"What, then? Acupuncture? Hypnosis?"

"Do you want to be able to sleep, or not?"

Jean sighed. "All right. I promise not to tell anyone. Now, will you tell me?"

"It'll be easier to just show you. First, though, I need to remove the bandage."

"All right." Jean watched as Isabella brought over a sterile drape, which she opened over Jean's lap. Then she donned a pair of latex gloves before removing the bandage. Her nimble fingers were as gentle as possible as she tried to not jostle Jean's tender flesh.

When the bandage was finally removed, she carefully lowered Jean's arm onto the drape on her lap.

"Now what?" Jean asked.

"Now, I need you to relax," Isabella said. She pulled over a chair to the bedside, settled down in it. "And please don't say anything; I need to concentrate."

"Concentrate? On wh-?"

Isabella placed a finger to her lips, and Jean quickly shut her own mouth. Nodding, she took a deep breath and willed herself to relax.

Isabella closed her eyes as she apparently centered herself. Slowly, her eyes opened, and she began to sing. Not words per se-merely a soft, haunting melody. Jean would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation, if she had not found the tune so captivating. She watched, entranced, as the emotion expressed in the song filled Isabella's face. Her beautiful violet eyes pooled with tears. Jean watched as the tears brimmed and spilled over, sliding down her cheeks. One tear dripped down past her jaw and onto Jean's arm. She could barely feel the wetness on her injured skin.

As she turned her attention back to Isabella and her song, Jean suddenly noticed that her arm felt warmer than usual. Glancing down, she saw that there was a soft violet glow where the tear had fallen. As Isabella continued to sing, the light slowly grew in size and intensity, creating a gentle warmness along with it. She gasped as the light covered her entire arm, consuming it. The heat seemed to be flowing through her veins, though it was never strong enough to be painful-not as hot as the burn that had created the injuries in the first place. Soon, the glow became too bright-blinding-and Jean had to close her eyes and turn her head away.

She kept her eyes closed until she heard Isabella stop singing. Then she turned back. Staring down at her arm, she could not believe her eyes.

The flesh was completely healed.

"Oh my God," Jean gasped. She slowly raised her arm, turning it this way and that to examine the now unblemished skin.

"How does it feel?" Isabella asked. She sounded exhausted.

"There's no more pain," Jean replied, still staring at her arm in disbelief. "It's as though it was never burned." She looked over at the nurse. "How did you do this? How did you . . . heal me?"

"I have a special . . . talent," she replied softly, getting to her feet. She wavered, though, and quickly sat back down, bringing a shaking hand to her head.

"It takes a lot out of you."

Slowly, Isabella nodded. "But it's worth it. I hate to see people suffer." She managed a weary smile.

"Isabella, are you a mutant?"

"I must re-bandage your arm," she said, ignoring Jean's inquiry, "so that no one finds out. Especially-"

"Dr. Gauche?" Jean finished for her.

Slowly, Isabella nodded. She got to her feet, stood for a moment to test her legs. She remained steady, and silently walked across the room to gather more bandaging materials.

"Why are you so afraid of him?"

"I told you, he has a temper," she replied as she started to wrap Jean's arm again.

"Surely you can lodge a complaint against him, if he treats you improperly."

"It's more complicated than that. Please, Jean, I have a headache. I don't want to talk about this right now."

"Is that from using your powers?"

"Small price to pay for helping you, easing your pain. I just need a good night's rest, and then I'll be good as new. There, all done." She gathered the remaining bandaging materials and silently put them away.

Jean knew that the young woman had put a great deal on the line, revealing her secret in order to help her. Perhaps acting in kind would encourage the other woman to open up more. "Isabella, I . . . I'm a mutant too. I also have special gifts."

The nurse paused in her tasks for a moment, but did not reply as she then continued to tidy up the room.

"You don't seem surprised by this revelation."

Isabella shrugged. "I . . . suspected. From how you reacted earlier, during your concern over the baby. I guess maybe we all have some sort of sixth sense, being able to recognize each other."

"It's usually a little more straightforward for me, actually. I'm a telepath and a telekinetic-I can read people's thoughts, and move things with my mind. Only, for some reason, my powers have not been working since I woke up here. Do you know why that might be?"

"I have no idea."

Isabella had not looked directly at Jean since healing her. Now she seemed especially uncomfortable. Was it merely because she was afraid Gauche would learn of what she had done? Her fear seemed much more irrational than what one would expect from a timid employee toward a commandeering boss.

"Isabella, has Dr. Gauche done something to hurt you? Has he said something inappropriate? Has he touched you?"

Averting her eyes, Isabella shook her head. "No, it's nothing like that. Please, Jean, I can't talk about this-not now, not here. I really need to get to bed. You should rest, too. You've got more than yourself to think of now, after all."

Slowly, Jean nodded. Isabella was spooked right now; pushing any further would send her scurrying away, perhaps prevent her from revealing any additional information. Instead, she decided to bide her time.

"You're right, Isabella. Thank you for healing me."

She was rewarded with a brilliant smile. "You're quite welcome. Sleep well."

After Isabella left, Jean lay back down onto her side. She looked down at her arm, now good-as-new below the bandage. Something about Isabella's reaction still did not sit right with her. It seemed to be more than fear of being discovered by her coworkers as a mutant. Something else was going on here.

For instance, why the hell weren't Jean's own powers working? She had not hit her head in the accident-at least, not as far as she could remember. Why then hadn't her telepathy and telekinesis returned?

There was definitely something strange going on here. She was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery.

She yawned, and suddenly found herself barely able to keep her eyes open. Her mind grew fuzzy with fatigue.

Isabella's right about one thing-I do need to keep my strength up, for the baby. I'll figure this out-tomorrow.

Jean closed her eyes, and was soon fast asleep.

**End Chapter 12**


	13. Chapter 13

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 13**

Ororo sat at the round metal table in the Ready Room, watching Scott pace the hallway. He had been doing so for the past two hours-ever since Nathan had entered the chamber where Cerebro was housed in order to enhance his telepathic powers to search for Jean. She had managed to get Scott to sit down with her for a while. But then when his impatience manifested as incessant finger drumming, she was certain he was going to drive her mad. Needless to say, she did not protest when he returned to pacing the hallway.

His movements reminded her of a caged tiger, lithe and menacing as it patrolled the borders of its enclosure. Ororo sighed, shaking her head; she was convinced Scott would manage to wear a hole in the metal flooring.

Hearing the hiss of the door opening, Ororo was on her feet and sprinting into the hallway almost as quickly as Scott stopped pacing and approached the adjacent room entrance. A moment later, Nathan emerged, shoulders slumped, face slick with sweat, looking weary to the bone. Though the answer was painfully obvious, Scott nonetheless felt the need to ask: "Any luck?"

Nathan shook his bowed head. He seemed unable to look either of them in the eyes. "I'm finding absolutely no sign of her."

"What exactly does that mean?" Ororo asked.

Cable sighed. "Either she's unconscious, she's somewhere where there's psi-shielding, or. . . ." He broke off abruptly, unable to voice the words.

"She's not dead," Scott said confidently. "I would know."

"But I thought your rapport is not active," Ororo questioned.

"It's not," he admitted. "Nonetheless, Ororo, we've been mindlinked for so long, I would know. And I'm telling you, she's not dead." Crossing his arms, Scott turned his attention to Cable. "Are you sure you've searched every potential location?"

Ororo would not believe it possible, but Nathan's shoulders slumped even further. He and Scott had never had the best father-son relationship since they learned of their true connection, and Cable was nothing if not a proud, self-assured, take-no-shit-from anyone man. And yet, now, looking at him, Storm was reminded of a little boy who had just lost a little league game, and was unable to face his father's disappointment. When he spoke, his voice was low, uncertain, and he was still unable to look Scott in the face.

"I've looked everywhere I can think of, Scott. I'm sorry, but I can't locate her. Maybe Betsy can give it a try when she returns. Any luck contacting her or the professor, Ororo?" He managed to meet her gaze, and seemed almost to be pleading for a sign of her understanding.

She only wished she had better news for him. "A message was left for Betsy to contact us as soon as she received it. And there has still been no success in reaching Charles."

"Giving up already, Nate?" Scott asked with a scowl.

"I'm not-"

"If it were you who were missing, you know that Jean would not even sleep until we found you."

For a moment, Ororo saw anger flash in Cable's eyes as his fists clenched at his sides. But just as quickly, it was gone, and he bowed his head once more. She understood, then, the reason for his disappointment. It was not so much fear of letting down his father, as it was a sense of helplessness for being unable to help his stepmother.

"I know that, Scott. And I'm not giving up. I'm just brain-fried right now. My attempting to search won't do any good at the moment if I can't concentrate. I need a shower, and about half an hour to meditate to clear my head."

Scott snorted.

"Oath! We're not all made of stone, Cyclops." Ororo could feel the tension in the room skyrocket. "Some of us actually need rest to be able to function at full capacity. We can't all be the perfect little mutant soldier."

Scott's jaw visibly tightened and he stood up even straighter. "This isn't about some mission, Nathan. This is about Jean-my wife, your mother-and-"

Nathan's brow furrowed. "And what?"

"Nothing," Scott muttered, lowering his arms. "Go get yourself cleaned up and rested. And eat something while you're at it. You're of no use to anyone if you're dead on your feet." And with that, he spun on his heel and headed for the Ready Room.

Cable watched his father stride down the corridor. "What the hell's gotten into him?"

"Try not to be too hard on him, Nathan," Ororo told him. "He is very worried about Jean."

"There's more to it than that," Cable replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wiped as I am, I could still feel the emotions reverberating off of him, almost as if he were projecting them. He's scared shitless."

"One cannot really blame him," she pointed out. "If you like, Nathan, I can prepare some food for you while you shower. You will need to keep up your energy if you are to persist at using Cerebro to aid you in your search."

He actually managed a weary smile. "Thanks, Storm. That sounds great." Together, they headed for the elevator. "Can I ask a favor?"

"Of course."

"Would you mind making a little extra, and bringing it to Scott? I don't think he's eaten anything since I arrived yesterday."

She smiled, touched by the son's concern for the father who had just chastised him. "Certainly."

They rode up to the main floor of the mansion in silence. Stepping out onto the first floor, they smiled at one another before parting ways-Cable up to his second-floor guest room, Storm continuing to the kitchen at the back of the mansion.

She busied herself with food preparations: brewing coffee, heating soup, making sandwiches, washing fruit. Twenty minutes later, she had assembled a tray, which she carried upstairs to Cable's room, and knocked on his door.

A few moments later, the door swung open, revealing Nathan as he pulled on a long-sleeved tee-shirt over a pair of jeans. His hair was still damp from his shower, and the smell of soap clung to him.

"Did someone order room service?" Ororo inquired deadpan.

His eyebrows rose. "Do my ears deceive me? Did the mighty Wind-Rider actually just make a joke?"

"I shall deny it, and no one will believe you," she replied with a wink.

"Thank you, Storm. This smells wonderful," he said, taking the tray from her and stepping away from the doorway. "Would you care to join me?"

"No, you go ahead. I shall bring some to Scott, and see if perhaps he is willing to talk."

He placed the tray down on the desk. "Y'know, 'Ro, I think you and Jean are the only ones able to deal with Scott when he gets in one of these moods." Nathan picked up a sandwich and took a large bite.

"I would hazard to say that Scott is not the only Summers to have difficult 'moods'."

"Jus' wha're you implyin'?" he asked around a mouthful of ham and cheese.

"The phrase 'like father like son' comes to mind."

"The ole apple don't levitate far from the mutant tree, eh?"

She smiled. "Finish your lunch and take some time to meditate. I shall see you downstairs later this afternoon."

"Than's again f'r the food," he called after her.

Chuckling to herself, Ororo returned to the kitchen to stock a second tray with coffee, soup, sandwiches, and fruit. She carried it down with her to the sub-basement, where she found Scott sitting behind the computer console in the Ready Room.

"Scott, I brought you some food," she announced, setting the tray down on the counter beside him.

"Not hungry," he replied, typing away at the keyboard as he stared at the monitor.

"What are you doing?" she asked as she pulled up a seat beside him.

"Searching hospitals for admitted patients matching Jean's description," he replied, clicking the mouse.

"I thought Henry had already performed such a search."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't hurt to be thorough. I'm expanding the database to include more recent dates in case there was a delay in her admittance, as well as expanding the search radius. I figure if Sinister was able to substitute a clone for Jean's body, he likely could have transported her out of the area."

"If he is capable of such transportation, then theoretically Jean could be anywhere on the globe."

Scott's jaw tensed. "In theory, yes."

"Then is this not a senseless search?"

His fist came down so hard and fast on the computer console that Ororo jerked back, startled. "And what the hell would you have me do, Ororo? Sit around twiddling my thumbs? We've already been over the accident scene with a fine-toothed comb. The recent rain has long since washed away any evidence-though Logan has nonetheless been back there several times, all to no avail. Nathan has been using Cerebro nearly non-stop for the past twenty-four hours, also with no luck. I- I don't know what else to do. . . ." Rising and placing palms on the console, he leaned forward and bowed his head.

"How about getting some rest?" she suggested. "I do not think you have slept since you received news of the accident."

"Ororo, my wife is out there somewhere, in the hands of a madman whose hobby is playing with my family's DNA like some sort of modern-day Dr. Frankenstein. I can't-I won't-rest until she's back here, safe and sound."

"The thought of Jean in Sinister's clutches does not put me at ease either, Scott. But surely if he values her genetics so highly he will not cause her any harm."

"Maybe not directly, no."

She was about to ask him what he meant by that cryptic comment when there came a knock on the open door to the Ready Room. They both turned to see Hank enter the room.

"Excuse me for interrupting," he said softly. Though he appeared to be attempting to keep a neutral expression, there was no mistaking the sadness in his eyes.

"Henry, is something wrong?" Ororo asked, rising and taking a step closer to him.

"I am afraid I have some . . . sad news." Hank cleared his throat. "Dr. Philips just called from the hospital. It would seem that our Jane Doe has . . . passed away."

"Goddess! How long ago?"

"Just recently. Bobby was with her at the time."

Ororo sighed. "At least the poor woman was not alone."

Scott crossed his arms and took a deep breath. "You stand by your test results, Hank?"

The Beast nodded. "I am 99 certain she is not Jeanie. That woman's DNA was a direct match to Jeanie's-save for the fact that her x-factor gene was not activated. She is a perfect clone, aside from not being a mutant." He hesitated. "Nonetheless, I would like to have her dental records compared to Jeanie's, just to be completely thorough."

Scott nodded. "Are they going to autopsy her?"

Ororo's head whipped around to face him. She was surprised how well he was taking this. Though he had been rather confident himself that the injured woman was not his wife-especially after Hank got his test results-she would nonetheless expect him to find the entire situation somewhat disconcerting, at the very least.

"I'm not certain if they planned to perform a postmortem," Hank said. "From what the doctor described, it sounds as though they are suspicious the cause of death was ARDS-Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome. A common sequela to severe burn injuries."

"Can you request that they perform an autopsy?"

"If you want one, of course," Hank replied. He regarded his friend for a moment. "If I may ask, Scott, is there a particular reason?"

Scott nodded. "I need to be one hundred percent sure, Hank. Deep down, I know Jean is still alive-I'm sure I would be able to feel it if she weren't. Still, I have to be certain."

Hank's brow furrowed. "But I still do not understand how an autopsy would provide any additional information that the DNA testing or dental records do not."

Scott did not reply immediately. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Finally, after many long moments of uncomfortable silence, he spoke softly. "Because they'll be able to tell us if the woman they autopsy was pregnant."

Hank's eyes went wide even as Ororo's mouth dropped open.

"Bright Lady!"

"Oh my stars. . . ! Scotty, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Slowly, Scott nodded. "Jean's pregnant."

"Goddess! Scott, why did you not say something sooner? Why did you not tell us?"

"Tell us what?"

They all turned to the doorway to see Cable standing there. As the room became suddenly silent, he looked around at the trio of faces. "Why do I feel as though I'm late to the party?" He stepped inside. "What's going on? What's with all the deer-in-headlights expressions?"

"Well, Nathan, it would seem that your father here has just dropped a bombshell on us."

"Hank-!" There was a sharp warning tone to Scott's voice.

"Does Nathan not know either?" Storm asked.

"Know what?"

Scott shot Ororo a cold glance.

Cable looked from Storm to Scott and back again. "What's there to tell me? Have you gotten new info?"

Ororo regarded Scott coolly. "Scott, this could affect his success with Cerebro. If you do not tell him, I shall."

Nathan walked over to his father. "Something about Jean? Something you don't want me to know?"

"It's irrelevant." Scott issued the words offhandedly, in the manner of a leader accustomed to having his orders obeyed without question.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Cable asked, taking a step closer, invading Scott's personal space. "If you know something that might make it easier for me to locate her, then please, Scott, tell me. I'm no Xavier here. I could use all the help I can get. Do you want to find your wife or not?"

In response to the belligerent tone of Nathan's accusation, Scott's hands balled into fists at his sides, shaking almost imperceptibly. Meeting Nathan's gaze, he nodded. "Of course I do."

"Then tell me what you know." There was an underlying vulnerability in the sentiment that belied the demanding nature of Cable's words.

Nathan watched silently, patiently, as Scott took a step back and turned around, contemplating.

Scott took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. Still, he hesitated. Finally, he made up his mind, though he did not turn to face Nathan. "Jean's pregnant."

Cable stiffened, back going ramrod straight in a stance reminiscent of his father. "What?"

"Jean's pregnant," Scott repeated, his tone flat.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" Nathan demanded.

"We were all only just informed," Hank offered, finally interceding in the argument in hopes of diffusing some of the tension.

"Scott?" Nathan questioned. "Why were you keeping this from us?"

"Nathan, please-I really don't want to talk about this right now," Scott replied, walking back toward the console.

"That's too fucking bad," Cable replied, quickly closing the distance between them and grabbing his arm. "This changes everything."

Scott spun back around to face him. "How? Jean is still missing. We still have no idea where she is."

"But now we have motive for why Sinister took her."

"Do you think he knows?" Ororo asked, walking closer.

Scott shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"How far along is she?" Hank asked.

"Just over three months."

"Well, at least it won't be obvious yet."

"Oath! You think he doesn't know? Why the flonq do you think he kidnapped her!"

"Nathan, perhaps the child is not his main objective."

Cable practically rolled his eyes at her. "C'mon, Storm, think about who you're talking to here. The only reason I even exist is because that madman wanted to combine Jean and Scott's genetics to make an alpha-class mutant that he could control." He shook his head before once again glaring at his father. "And I still can't believe you didn't tell me!"

Scott squared his shoulders, though he avoided Nathan's gaze. "Like I said, I didn't think it was relevant."

"Not relevant?" Cable once again shook his head in disbelief. "Sinister's plans for me as his perfect little mutant were foiled when Apocalypse infected me with the T-O virus, preventing me from achieving my full potential with my powers. Can you even begin to imagine what he could do with an untampered, unhindered Grey-Summers offspring?"

"Forgive me, Nathan, if I try not to think about it."

"Knowledge is power, Scott," Cable said, walking closer to his father. "I suggest you consider the consequences if we don't find Jean and put an end to Sinister's plans for her and your child."

Scott's face had gone distinctly white.

"Enough!" Storm bellowed. She walked between the men, placed a staying hand on Nathan's chest. "Arguing amongst ourselves is not helping anyone-most certainly not Jean. We should be focusing this energy on finding her."

"You're right, Ororo," Cable said. "I'm going to go back to Cerebro. Maybe now I can try looking for Jean's mind plus another more emergent one in close association with hers."

"Do you think that shall work?" she questioned.

"It's worth a try, 'Ro, don't you think?" Giving Scott one last glare, he headed for the door.

"What can we do?" she called after Cable.

"Pray." He stepped into the room that housed the mighty machine that would amplify his telepathic powers, and the metal doors whooshed shut behind him.

"G'journey, Nate," Scott whispered under his breath. Then, more loudly, he said, "I'm going upstairs to see if Logan's checked in." Without another word, he left the room.

Hank and Ororo exchanged a glance.

"I shall call the hospital to request the postmortem exam," Hank said.

She nodded. "I am going to go attempt to talk to Scott."

"Go easy on him, Ororo."

She graced him with a warm smile. "Of course."

**End Chapter 13**


	14. Chapter 14

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 14**

Ororo caught up with Scott in the main foyer. "Scott, wait!"

He paused, fists balling at his sides. "Stop following me, Ororo."

"I only want to talk with you."

"I don't feel like talking right now," he replied before continuing toward the back of the house.

"You may not feel in the mood, but I think you need to do so," she replied, following him into the parlor.

"I'm really not in the mood to get chewed out again, thank you very much."

"Who said I was going to chastise you?"

Scott stopped, slowly turned to face her. "You're not going to read me the riot act for not telling you about the baby?"

Ororo smiled. "Scott, I have known you for years. You are a sensible man. I trust your judgment. I am sure that you had your reasons for not revealing the information."

His shoulders slumped ever-so-slightly, as he seemed to relax visibly. "Jean and I, we wanted to wait a while to make the announcement. At least until she was into her second trimester, because of what happened last time. . . ."

She nodded knowingly. She could see the pain that filled his face at the mere mention of Jean's previous miscarriage, of the unborn child they had lost less than a year ago.

"I understand, Scott."

"Yeah, well, I wish Nathan did."

She pressed her lips together. "When we are frightened, we often lash out toward people we care about, say things that we do not truly mean. Nathan is simply scared about Jean-and now about his new sibling. He does not truly blame you. You are merely his easiest target toward which to vent his frustrations. And it is obvious that by not telling him, you were merely trying to protect him."

Scott's eyebrows rose above his ruby quartz lenses.

Storm smiled at his surprise. "You are not quite that difficult to read, you know. You are worried that Sinister's true goal is your unborn child. You are likewise afraid that such knowledge will remind Nathan that Sinister created his mother to fall in love with you and bear your child-to bring him into the world."

Scott stiffened.

"What you must remember, Scott, is that Nathan was not created in a test tube. He was conceived out of love. He was born to parents who loved and adored him. You and Jean raised him, taught him, helped shape him into the man he has become. There is no shame in that."

Bowing his head, Scott took a shaky breath. "I- I'm just afraid. Afraid that Sinister wants this child to fulfill the purpose he originally wanted Nathan to serve. I'm afraid of what he will do to the baby-or to Jean, in order to get what he wants."

Ororo walked closer, took Scott's hand in her own. "That is why we are going to find Jean, and bring her home."

He tried to smile, was not very successful. "I hope so, Ororo. God, I hope so."

"Of course we-" The sound of her voice was drowned out by the ringing of the telephone. They exchanged a look.

"Logan?" Scott suggested.

"Perhaps." Ororo walked to an end table and picked up the cordless phone. "Hello. Xavier Institute."

"'Roro, that you?"

"Jubilation?"

Scott's head snapped up.

"Yeah, it's me. How ya doin', Wind-Rider?"

She hesitated for the briefest of moments. "I am all right. How are you?"

"I'm doin' great. Midterms are finally over. Hey, I was wondering if you knew if the 'rents were around. I've been trying and trying their place, but there's no answer."

"Scott is right here, as a matter of fact."

"Kewl. Can you put him on?"

"Of course. Hold on one moment." Cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, she held the phone out toward Scott. "It is Jubilee."

Scott backed up a step. "Ororo, I can't talk to her right now."

"But she is asking for you."

"I- I can't pretend as though nothing is wrong."

"Then tell her that it is not."

"I can't."

"And why not?"

"Because. . . ." He paused, licking his lips. "I just can't, Ororo."

She regarded him. "Scott, as much as you would like to, you cannot protect children forever. There comes a time when they must grow up." Once again, she held out the phone.

Still, he did not move. He stared down at the cordless. Finally, he sighed, and took the phone from her. He let out a deep breath before placing it to his ear. "Hey, kiddo," he said, forcing his voice to sound cheerful.

"Hey, Scott! How's it shaking?"

"How are you doing?" he asked her instead. "How's school? Midterms, right?"

"Just handed in my last paper this morning-after pulling an all-nighter to finish it."

"All-nighter, huh? Then what on earth are you still doing awake?"

She laughed. "Actually, I've been trying to track you guys down. I finally gave up on your place and decided to see if you were at the mansion."

"Yeah, I've been . . . hanging out here for a while."

"Is Jean around, by any chance? There's something I need to ask her."

Scott did not reply. His mouth had gone suddenly dry.

"Scott, didja hear me? Is Jean there?"

He cleared his throat. "She's . . . uh . . . she's not here right now."

"Oh. Well, then, do you know when she'll be back?"

He did not know what to say to that.

"You sound a little funny, Scott. Is everything okay?"

He did not want to lie to her. He hesitated, unsure of what to say. Apparently, she found his silence worrisome.

"Scott, what's wrong? Is Jean okay? What happened? Oh God, is it the baby? Did something happen with the baby?" From the sound of the young woman's voice, she seemed to be on the verge of panicking.

"No, Jubilee, as far as I know, the baby's fine."

"'As far as you know'! What the hell is that supposed to mean? Scott, where's Jean? What's happened? Please, tell me."

He sighed. "It's a long story, kiddo."

"I'm not going anywhere. . . ."

Walking over to a sofa, he slowly eased himself down and began to catch her up on recent events regarding the accident and Jean's disappearance. Ororo, meanwhile, quietly slipped out of the room.

"So Cable's had no luck finding her?" Jubilee asked when Scott had finally concluded his tale.

"No, there hasn't been any sign of her. But even with Cerebro's aid, his telepathic powers are not extremely powerful."

"Where's the prof? I'm sure he could find her without breaking a sweat."

"Out of town."

"What, he hasn't come back yet?"

"Out of town, as in out of Galaxy."

"Oh." She paused. "You want me to ask Emma?"

Scott considered. "She and Jean haven't exactly been on the best of terms since you came to stay with us. I'm not sure she'd agree to help."

"She's eased up on the whole jealousy thing now that she's back to being able to corrupt my mind. Let me update Sean, and I'm sure together we can convince her to come help."

"It'll probably take a lot of persuasion."

"Don't sweat it, Scott. I'm a master of sweet-talking. Especially if I can use my trump card-with your permission of course."

"Trump card?"

"I can let slip about the baby. You said you already let the cat out of the bag, right? 'Specially if Sean hears that Jean's expecting, he'll move hell and high water to talk Emma into helping."

Scott managed a small chuckle at that. "Sean can be pretty persuasive himself."

"If all else fails, he'll use his sonic scream to knock her out and we'll drag her to Westchester. So lemme go find him and Queenie, and she and I'll be there by tonight."

"Jubilee, there's no need for you to come. You've got school-"

"School, schmool. I just finished midterms. Besides, you think I could just sit here twiddling my thumbs while Jean is missing? We're family now, Scott. That means we're there for one another. I want to come help."

"I'm not sure there's anything you can do here."

"I can be there with you."

That gave him pause. He could not help but smile. "That would be wonderful, kiddo. Thank you."

"I'll give you a call before we leave so you have an idea of our ETA."

"Sounds great. I'll see you soon, then."

"Oh, and Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"We're gonna find her. I know it."

Jean opened her eyes to near-darkness. The small stream of light creeping from beneath the door barely outlined the bed and side-table. She lay quietly for several minutes, listening. She could not detect anyone mulling about outside. Strange for a hospital, even at night. She was beginning to wonder just what kind of hospital she had been taken to.

Sitting up, she pushed her hair back out of her eyes. How long had she been asleep, she wondered. The last thing she remembered was sitting here as Isabella healed her. Then the next thing she knew, she could not even muster a coherent thought and fell right asleep. Was that some sort of strange side effect of Isabella's powers? Or could it be something else? As she gazed around, her eyes came to rest on the IV pump. Could they have given her something to make her sleep? Something to keep her docile? Something that could hurt the baby?

Jean quickly peeled off the tape securing the catheter into her arm, gripped the IV line and pulled. She barely noticed the sting as she removed the needle from her vein. She held her finger over the spot to stop it from bleeding.

A sharp beeping startled her, nearly made her cry out. The IV pump was issuing some sort of error message. Panicked that the noise would alert someone, she quickly threw back the covers and hurried over to the pump, randomly pressing buttons until she found the off switch. She breathed a sigh of relief as the room once again lapsed into silence.

She forced herself to remain standing for several minutes as she waited to see if anyone had heard. When no one came, she took a deep breath and slowly crept to the door. Grasping the door handle, she ever-so-slowly pulled the door open enough to peek her head outside.

To her left was a wall-a dead end. She gazed down the lit corridor to her right at about half a dozen similar doors to hers, staggered on both sides of the hallway. The closest was across and a few yards to the right of her room. Since no one seemed to be around, she decided to investigate this room first. She quietly padded across the cold tile floor and slowly pushed the door open, hoping not to disturb anyone who might be inside.

From the light that streamed in from the hallway, the room appeared to be empty. She slipped inside, letting the door close behind her. Steeling her nerve, she flipped on the light switch. She looked around in confusion.

The room itself was identical to hers-insofar as the color and style of the walls, the floor, the cabinets, the window placement. But there was no bed, no equipment. She walked over to the side counter, opened a drawer. Empty. She crossed the room to the window and opened the blinds. The "window" had a view of a metal wall. What the hell was going on here? Were the rest of the rooms like this one?

Shutting the light, she checked the corridor once again. The coast was clear, so she continued to the next room. She saw light streaming from below the door. She placed her ear to the wood and listened. She did not hear voice, nor movement. Holding her breath, she tried the handle, found it unlocked. Pushing the door open, she quickly slipped inside. Her eyes widened as she took in the room's contents. Though of similar size, this was certainly not like the other rooms.

It looks like some sort of laboratory.

She walked around the room slowly, studying the contents of various counters. There were racks of test tubes, piles of Petri dishes, incubators, centrifuges. On the center table were several rectangular Plexiglas containers; electrical cords ran to a nearby outlet. As she peered over the top, she saw that they were filled with a clear liquid that was bubbling.

That looks like some equipment Hank has in one of his labs. What did he call the test? Gel electro-something-or-other.

There were microscopes, surgical instruments, piles of photographic printouts of those gel things that were placed in the containers.

She walked over to the computer that sat on a desk in the corner. It seemed to be running some sort of program. Strings of letters were scrolling down the screen at a rapid pace. They weren't words-they appeared to be some sort of code. Only four letters were repeated over and over again in no apparent pattern: A, T, C, and G. Jean remembered enough of her high school biology to recall that those letters were abbreviations for the four base pairs that made up DNA. Strung together, they formed a sequence that comprised genes. The computer was showing some sort of genetic code.

Why the hell is there a genetics research lab next door to patients' rooms in the middle of a hospital? This makes no sense. She shook her head in confusion. One thing's for sure. I need to find a phone and call home. I need someone to come pick me up. Tonight.

She quickly scanned the room again, hoping there might be a telephone somewhere inside. She paid closest attention to the desk, but there was no phone. Instead, in the shadows of the corner, she realized that there was another door, leading to God-only-knew-what. She debated whether to investigate what lay on the other side.

Hand reaching halfway for the knob, she stopped suddenly.

Do I really want to know? she asked herself.

The seconds ticked by as she debated.

Oh, what the hell, Jean. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she grasped the doorknob, turned it, and stepped into the adjoining room. A blast of cold air washed over her, making her tremble. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light and for her to be able to make out the contents of the room.

Her jaw dropped open in horror at what she found inside.

Along the wall closest to her were several shelves filled with jars. Jars containing human fetuses at various stages of development. Jean's arms wrapped around her middle protectively.

It's like some sort of ghoulish collection. How disturbed would a person have to be to do such a thing? she wondered, feeling a shiver run through her.

As she slowly walked across the room, she scrutinized the jars more closely. For the most part, they looked normal according to her limited experiences, with only the occasional deformity apparent.

I wonder . . . could some of these . . . would they have been . . . mutants?

Feeling her stomach knot, Jean finally peeled her eyes away from the macabre collection and turned to the center of the room. Several metal containers with glass-fronts that reminded her of enormous fish tanks sat side-by-side, dozens of metal cables protruding from the ends. As she approached, she realized that the chambers contained some sort of cloudy liquid. She bent down to the one closest to her for a better look.

And nearly screamed when she saw the back of a hand resting against the glass.

She had to will herself to slow her breathing. Taking a deep breath, she once again knelt beside the tank to get a better look at the hand. She could see four tiny fingers. A child's hand.

My God, did someone drown a child?

Jean hurried to the end of the tank, looking for some way to open it. But the metal edges seemed to be completely sealed, with no latches or buttons or levers. She wiped away the condensation on the top of the glass, trying to get a better look inside.

She could barely make out the child's face. A little red-haired girl. Her eyes were closed.

She looks like she's just sleeping. Jean studied her features for a moment. That's odd. She looks somehow familiar. She lightly pressed her hand to the glass above the little girl's cheek. I'm sorry, little one. I wish I could have done more to help you. Poor little lost soul. It took several long moments before she was able to break her gaze away.

I'd better get a look in the rest of the chambers, she realized with a sigh.

There were eight all told, each containing a little girl of a different age, ranging from about three years old to about sixteen, Jean guessed.

Funny how they all look alike. Sisters, maybe? But why are they all here? Lord help me if I've stumbled upon the secret lair of some psychopathic serial killer. Though she tried to put herself at ease by making light of the situation, Jean could not stop the goose bumps that covered her flesh and made the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end.

She was about to leave the room to continue her search for a phone when something in the far corner caught her attention. She walked closer and looked up at the wall. There appeared to be another tank standing vertically. This one was almost entirely constructed of glass, was more ovular in shape with rounded edges, and stood about six feet high.

That one's tall enough to hold an adult, she realized.

It looked to be filled with liquid, much as the other smaller chambers had been. There appeared to be some sort of computer console in front of the tank. On its surface was a large lever reminiscent of a light switch. Jean reached for it with a trembling hand. Biting her lip, she pressed the button.

Fluorescent lights above and behind the tank came to life, illuminating the opaque liquid and its lone occupant. This time, Jean could not help but cry out in horror as she got a glimpse of the woman's face beneath her long, red hair.

Dear Lord! It can't be! She shook her head in disbelief as she stared at the face. That's me.

**End Chapter 14**


	15. Chapter 15

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 15**

The woman in the tank appeared to be an exact duplicate of Jean. A twin. A . . . clone.

"Oh God," Jean murmured, trembling hands coming to cover her mouth. She swallowed at the taste of bile at the back of her throat as she shook her head in denial.

It can't be. It can't. Not again.

But it suddenly all made perfect sense. The laboratory. The genetics research. The shelves of babies in jars. The chambers containing little girls that looked like her. And now, this woman. It was like looking into a mirror. As it had been the first time she came face-to-face with Madelyne Pryor.

Jean took a step backwards, trying to put more distance between herself and the tank.

There was no question in her mind who was responsible for these sick experiments. There could be only one person-one man-one monster.

Sinister.

Merely thinking his name sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

Then it was no coincidence that she was here, at this so-called hospital. He must have engineered the car accident. He killed Bobby, kidnapped her. But to what end? He obviously still had samples of her DNA, if these creations were any indication. Besides, it had always been Scott's genetics he had been more interested in than hers-or a combination thereof.

"Dear Lord, no!" she gasped, hand flying to her belly.

It was not her that Sinister wanted. It was her baby.

She remembered her dream then. The oddly familiar evil presence in her room, standing over her. Touching her pregnant belly, coveting her child. It had been him. He was even invading her dreams, her nightmares.

"He won't touch you," she vowed to the life growing inside of her as she pressed her hand closer against her abdomen. "I would sooner die than let him lay his hands on you."

She had to leave, she had to get out of there now. She could not let Sinister harm her child.

She walked back to the console, stared up at the chamber. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry you were created to serve a madman's evil purpose." With a final glance at her genetic duplicate, Jean turned off the light switch and fled the room, never looking back.

She quickly retraced her steps, back into the genetics lab, out into the corridor. She debated whether to see where the hallway took her, or to return to her room. She opted for the room. She needed to find some kind of weapon, something with which to protect herself. Besides, she had no idea what-or whom-lay down at the other end of the hallway. She hurried back to her room and started rummaging through drawers.

Suddenly, the lights came on. "Jean? Where were you? And what are you doing?"

Gasping, she spun around to see Isabella standing in the room. The nurse was not wearing her cap, and her hair looked disheveled-as though she had been woken from sleep.

Jean reached out behind her and into a drawer, fingers closing around the handle of a scalpel.

"Jean, what is it?" Isabella asked, approaching her. "You look as though you've seen a gho-"

"Stay back!" Jean snapped, pointing the scalpel blade at her. "Don't come any closer!"

"Jean, what on earth has gotten in to you? C'mon, let me help you back to bed."

"I said don't move!" She brandished the weapon, showing that she meant business. "You're not taking my baby!"

"Jean, what are you talking about?" Isabella asked, her voice remaining calm. "No one wants to take your baby. No one wants to hurt you-either of you."

"You really expect me to believe that, after what I saw out there?" she gestured toward the door.

"Jean, I have no idea what it is you think you saw, but it must be quite terrible to have you in such a state. You must have had another nightmare, and been sleepwalking." She tried to walk closer.

"I know what I saw!" Jean swung the blade, and Isabella jerked backwards to a safe distance. "Stop trying to convince me otherwise. I'm on to you. I know you're working for him. For Sinister. Essex. Gauche, or whatever he's calling himself now."

"Jean, I don't know what-"

"Cut the bullshit, Isabella-if that's even your real name. Are you even really a nurse?"

When the other woman hesitated, Jean laughed. "Oh God. You're not, are you? You're just another of his flunkies, sent to guard me and his prize."

Isabella's gaze slowly moved from Jean's face down her body, coming to rest on her middle. "Are you suggesting that Dr. Gauche, that he . . . wants your child?"

"Why the hell do you think he brought me here in the first place? He was obviously willing to kill to get his hands on me and my baby. . . ." Thoughts of Bobby brought stinging tears to her eyes, but she fought back the emotions. She had to remain levelheaded right now. "Don't you find it a little strange that he's growing clones of me down the hall?"

Isabella's eyes became round as saucers. "He's what?"

"What, you haven't been in Dr. Frankenstein's little cloning lab?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "Dr. Gauche . . . forbade me to go in there. I don't like to anger him. He frightens me."

"Don't blame you there. But you really should take a look. He's got quite the collection."

"No." Isabella shook her head. "I don't believe you. You're making it up."

Jean snorted. "Believe me, I wish I were."

"You're trying to trick me. Dr. Gauche doesn't use human test subjects. The closest he's come is growing cell cultures in the lab."

"Isabella, I think it's time you pulled your head out of the sand. Come with me." Jean reached for her arm.

"No." Isabella backed away. "I think I need to go get Dr. Gauche." She moved toward the door.

Before she could take another step, Jean intercepted the younger woman. She kicked Isabella's feet out from under her. As Isabella began to fall, Jean grabbed her wrist, twisting the arm behind her back.

Isabella cried out in surprise as she fell to her knees, and then in pain as Jean pressed her wrist up into the small of her back. "Ow! J-Jean . . . wh-what are you doing?"

"Shut up!" Jean hissed. "You're going to come with me to the lab across the hall and see for yourself what sick experiments your boss is cooking up."

"B-But, Jean, I already to-oh!" Isabella gasped as Jean held the edge of the scalpel blade against her throat.

"Isabella, I really don't want to have to hurt you," Jean said, pressing the blade a fraction closer to the woman's flesh. "But if you don't cooperate, I will cut your throat."

Isabella swallowed almost convulsively. When she spoke, her voice was low and laced with tears. "J-Jean, you're n-not a killer. I kn-know you're n-not."

"And I'd like to think you're not in cahoots with the mad scientist who's been holding me hostage and having you masquerade as a nurse. But you see, my life and that of my unborn child are hanging in the balance. So you'll forgive me if I'm a bit paranoid. Now, are you going to cooperate, or not?"

Jean felt Isabella's hot tears fall on the hand holding the scalpel blade. "All . . . all right."

"Good. Now get up." Still holding tight to the scalpel blade and Isabella's wrist, Jean pushed her to her feet. Together, they walked toward the door. "Just remember, if you try anything, my hand might accidentally slip, and slice that pretty little throat of yours wide open."

"O-Okay," Isabella whispered, fighting more tears, as she reached to open the door.

Together they made their way across the corridor and back into the hidden laboratory. By the time they reached the inner sanctum, Isabella was speechless as she stared at the jars of fetuses in wide-eyed horror.

Even in the pale light, Jean could see the other woman's face had gone ashen. "Dear Lord, what is this place?" Isabella gasped.

"It gets better," Jean said, lowering the scalpel blade but still keeping hold of Isabella's arm as she guided her toward the clone tanks.

Isabella's hand came to cover her mouth. "Those are just little girls." She shook her head in stunned disbelief as she looked from one chamber to another. "What on earth has he done to these children?"

Jean bit back a derisive laugh. "These aren't real children. Not borne to flesh and blood mothers. They were grown in test tubes and Petri dishes. They're just lab rats to him. All of them. Even her." Jean gestured toward the fall wall.

Isabella stared at the darkened chamber. "Wh-what's in there?"

"Go see for yourself," Jean replied, releasing her hold. "The switch on the far right turns on the light."

Hesitantly, Isabella made her way over to the control panel. With trembling fingers, she reached for the switch. It took her several moments before she was able to summon the courage to turn on the light.

As she caught sight of the adult clone, she fell to her knees.

For a moment, Jean thought the young woman was going to faint, dead away. Instead, she watched as Isabella sat on the floor, shoulders shaking as she sobbed. It almost made Jean feel sorry for her. Almost.

"You see these clones, Isabella? This one in particular has an awfully strong resemblance to yours truly, doesn't she?" When the woman would not reply, Jean felt her anger growing. "Doesn't she!" she spat.

"Y-Yes. . . ." Sobbing, Isabella managed to turn and look at Jean with red-rimmed eyes. "Oh God. Jean, I-I'm so sorry. I didn't know. . . ."

"Don't bother with the histrionics, hon. I have to admit, the sympathy-your comforting me with kind words-was a nice touch. You actually had me convinced that you cared. But don't waste any more fake tears on me."

"They're not . . . I wasn't. . . . Oh God, it wasn't supposed to be this way. No one was supposed to get hurt. He promised me no one's lives would be put in danger." She buried her face in her hands.

"Okay, this I have to hear. What kind of cock and bull story did he feed you?"

Sniffling, Isabella looked down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. "I- I was working as a laboratory assistant while I went to school part-time to get my bachelors. My genetics professor said he had a colleague who needed a research assistant-someone to run some experiments for him, catalogue data. It wouldn't conflict with my first job, and the pay was great. That's how I met Dr. Gauche."

"So how'd you go from cleaning test tubes to playing Florence Nightingale?" Jean asked, gesturing to the uniform.

Isabella flushed. "Dr. Gauche approached me one day with an offer for a . . . special job. He said he was doing some clinical work. He's developing a genetic test to detect the x-factor gene from fetal cell samples. To be able to determine if an unborn baby-"

"Will grow up to be a mutant?"

Isabella nodded. "He wanted me to serve as his nurse, to assist him in performing amniocenteses on women who came to his clinic, and to help analyze the results."

Jean blanched at the memory of Gauche-Sinister she had to remind herself-performing an ultrasound examination on her. How close he came to inserting a needle into her womb. He would have had a DNA sample from her unborn child. Another potential cloning subject. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

Crossing her arms around herself, she glared at Isabella. "You didn't find it a little strange that I didn't come to his clinic willingly? That I was a victim of a car accident?"

Once again, Isabella averted her eyes. "He paid me well to not ask questions and just do as I was told. He said there was an extra bonus in it for me if I took extra special care of you. I- I didn't see the harm in caring for you while you were here."

"Was he going to train you to be a midwife, too?"

Isabella's brow furrowed. "I don't understand. . . ."

Jean shook her head. "You really have no idea who we're dealing with, do you? There's no way Sinister was planning to let me go. I'm sure he's dying to get a sample of my baby's DNA, but it's the baby itself that he wants."

"But why?"

Jean sighed. "It's complicated. A long story. I'll give you the Cliff Notes version. Sinister-Nathaniel Essex-is a mad scientist in every sense of the word. Decades ago, he sold his soul to the devil for immortality. His life's work involves tinkering with mutants' genetic codes to create a supremely powerful mutant to serve his own evil purposes. For some reason or another, he's taken a particular interest in my genes-and those of my husband, Scott. He especially seems to enjoy combining our DNA. There was a time several years ago when I was believed dead. Sinister even went so far as to create a clone of me whose purpose was to fall in love with Scott and bear his son. He never got his hands on that child, and my clone has since died. It would seem, however, that Sinister is up to his old tricks again, and has made a play for my unborn child. He won't get this baby, though. I won't allow it."

Isabella stared at Jean, mouth slightly agape. She looked as though she were about to vomit or faint.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" Jean said harshly.

"Dear Lord, what have I done? What have I done?" She blinked back tears. "Jean, I'm so sorry. So very sorry. If I had known-"

Jean looked at the pale, saddened, shocked face of the young woman. She seemed honestly horrified by the part she played in the whole sordid mess. Even without her telepathy, Jean could sense that Isabella truly had no knowledge of her real purpose. This time, she did actually feel sorry for her.

"Isabella, it's not your fault. Sinister lied to you-used you-as he has so many others over the years. Please, don't blame yourself. To be perfectly honest, I'm glad you were here with me."

"You . . . you are?" she sniffled.

"You've taken good care of me. Now, can I ask one last favor of you?"

She nodded vigorously. "Name it."

"Help me get the hell out of here."

**End of Chapter 15**


	16. Chapter 16

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 16**

"Those are some nasty bruises you have acquired, my frigid friend," Hank said to Bobby as he removed the bandages from around his ribcage and inspected the area.

"Well, at least people won't think I'm making it up when I say my ribs hurt like hell."

"True." Hank donned his stethoscope. "Breathe deeply, please," he requested as he placed the diaphragm on Bobby's chest.

As he went through a series of inhalations and exhalations, Bobby felt it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. He was not sure how much time had passed before he heard Hank's voice jarring him awake.

"Earth to Robert Drake," Hank said, waving his hand in front of his friend's face.

"Huh? What?"

Hank shook his head. "Don't take this the wrong way, Robert, but you look dreadful. There are raccoons and several heavy metal band members who would be jealous of the current appearance of your eyes. Are you certain you are feeling well?"

"I'm just tired, is all," Bobby muttered, rubbing at his forehead. "Haven't been able to sleep much."

"Is it a matter of not being able to rest comfortably?" Hank asked as he began to re-wrap Bobby's ribs.

When Bobby did not reply immediately, Hank stopped and looked up. "Robert? What's the trouble?"

Bobby looked down at his feet, dangling over the edge of the exam table. "I've, uh . . . been, uhm . . . having . . . well, nightmares," he mumbled.

"About the accident?" Hank asked, his voice kind.

"Yeah. I close my eyes, and I keep on seeing her sitting there in the burning car. Only when I try to get her out, I can't. It's like I'm frozen in place. Then she turns and looks at me, and it's Jeanie's face staring out the car window. She's screaming at me, begging me to help her, to save her. But I can't get to her, I can't move, I can't open the door, I can't ice anything. And then the flames are all around her, and she's screaming as it burns her. I just watch helplessly as the flesh on her face starts to melt away. . . ." Shuddering, Bobby covered his eyes with his hand and drew a shaky breath.

Feeling Hank's gentle hand on his shoulder, he hesitated a moment before finally looking up. He was relieved not to see any signs of judgment in his friend's eyes. Instead, there was only sympathy and concern.

Hank nodded in understanding as he resumed his task of bandaging. "We're all worried about Jeanie. When exhaustion-both emotional and physical-overtakes our bodies, our minds often over-react, giving voice to our darkest fears, our innermost guilt." He placed the last piece of tape. "We will find her, Bobby. We'll bring her home, safe and sound."

Sniffing, Bobby absently nodded his head. "So, do I check out all right, Hankster?"

"Yes. You're going to have to wear these for a while longer. I'd advise that you take it easy for at least six to eight weeks. Definitely no lifting of heavy objects for the next month. I'd like to repeat the x-rays in another week or two. How's your comfort level?"

"Okay. My doctor gave me some painkillers." He reached into his pocket and showed Hank the bottle.

Hank scrutinized the label through his reading glasses. "Dr. Rollings. Is that the woman who helped you acquire the blood sample?"

"No, the script came from the guy doc who was assigned to me after I was transferred upstairs. The one who helped me get the sample-Dr. Foxx-was my ER doctor, the one who saw me when I was first brought in."

"I see." Handing him back the bottle, Hank picked up Bobby's medical file and started to scribble in it. "Well, just let me know if these run out or if you need something stronger."

"Thanks. So, you done with me?"

Hank nodded. "Yes, by all means, please cover yourself. The reflection off of your pasty epidermis is nearly blinding."

"Hardy har har. We can't all be covered with thick blue fur, now can we?" Bobby reached beside him for his shirt. He tried not to wince as he slid his arms into the sleeves.

At the sound of footsteps, both men looked toward the doorway as Scott entered the room.

"Hi, Scotty," Hank called to him.

"Hey Hank. How are you feeling, Bobby?" Scott asked as he walked toward the exam table.

"Okay, thanks." Bobby was barely able to find his voice. As it was, he could not bring himself to meet his Scott's gaze. Instead, he focused on buttoning his shirt-which took a great deal of effort as he tried valiantly to keep his hands from shaking.

"Has Cable had any success?" Hank inquired.

Sadly, Scott shook his head. "Jubilee and Emma will be arriving within the hour. Hopefully Emma will have better luck."

"Or perhaps they can combine their telepathic talents to broaden the search," Hank suggested.

"Any word from the hospital?" Scott asked.

"No, though I expect my colleague in pathology to call at any ti-"

As if on cue, the phone in the medi-lab rang.

Hank bounded over to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Xavier Institute, Dr. McCoy speaking. . . . Hello, Linden. Has the exam been completed? . . . Yes. . . . I see. . . . Uh huh . . . So you have a diagnosis? . . . And you were able to compare the dental records? . . . Mmm-hmm. . . . And what about-? . . . Very good. . . . Well, thank you Linden, for getting back to me so quickly. . . . Yes, I will pass the information on to Mr. Summers. . . . Take care. Good-bye." As he replaced the receiver, he saw Scott standing not two feet in front of him.

"That was your friend who works in the hospital morgue?" he asked.

"Yes. They just finished the autopsy. They ruled the cause of death to be ARDS, just as Dr. Philips suspected."

"You had her autopsied?" Bobby asked, somewhat taken aback.

Hank nodded, though his attention was focused on Scott. The excitement in his face was nearly palpable. "They compared the dental records to Jeanie's."

"And? Don't keep me in suspense here, Hank."

He broke into a broad smile, all canines. "They didn't match. Good thing Jeanie's had a few fillings in her day."

Scott sighed. "What about-?"

"The postmortem exam also supported our suspicions. The woman who died was not pregnant, nor had she been so recently."

Nodding in silent understanding, Scott wordlessly collapsed into a chair. "Thank God," he murmured. Leaning back, he blew out a loud breath.

Bobby had watched the exchange in confusion. "What the hell is going on? Why did you have them check if the woman was pregnant?" As Hank and Scott both looked up at him, realization dawned. He felt all the color drain from his face. "Oh shit. You don't mean. . . . Jeanie's pregnant?" Even as he uttered the question, he already knew the answer.

Scott nodded at Bobby before looking up at the Beast. "Thank you, Hank, for taking care of this."

"No problem, Scott."

"Can I ask one more favor of you, Hank?"

"You have but to name it, Fearless."

"Could you make the necessary arrangements for the woman's remains?"

Though Hank's eyebrows rose, he barely missed a beat before replying. "Certainly, Scott. Would cremation suffice?"

Scott nodded. "I was thinking we could hold some sort of unofficial service, after we bring Jean home."

"Sure. I'll take care of it, Scott. You focus your attention on locating Jean."

"Thanks," Scott replied, getting to his feet. "I'm going to go let Nate, Ororo, and the others know about the autopsy results. "I'll catch up with you later." He quickly left the medi-lab.

"Great news, huh, Bob-" Hank stopped short as he caught sight of his friend's face. "Are you all right, Robert? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"Jesus, Hank. I had no idea that Jeanie was pregnant." He shook his head in disbelief. "No wonder Scott's been so beside himself."

"Well, at least we can now all know for sure that the mystery woman was not Jean."

Bobby thought back to the morning of his shopping trip with Jean, to various comments she had made that he had thought nothing of at the time, but that now made perfect sense with the knowledge that she was expecting. "Christ, I'm such a jackass!"

"You can be somewhat of a knucklehead at times, but I would hardly characterize yourself in such a derogatory manner."

"How long have you known?"

"About Jeanie's pregnancy? Just since earlier today. Scott only just revealed the news to Ororo, Nathan, and myself. Don't feel left out, Robert. It was not common knowledge."

Bobby continued to shake his head.

Oh God. It's bad enough that I almost killed Jeanie. But I also almost killed her unborn child. Oh shit.

He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. "I- I gotta go," he muttered. With a grunt, he jumped down from the exam table.

"Robert?"

"I'll catch you later, Hank." As if in a daze, Bobby made his way out of the medi-lab and down the hallway. I'm to blame. It's because of me that Jeanie and the child she's carrying are in the hands of one of our greatest enemies. He took a shaky breath. And God only knows what that sick bastard's plans are for her, or her baby.

The edge of Bobby's vision grayed as he broke out into a cold sweat. His shirt stuck to his back as he stumbled down the corridor.

Oh God. I'm gonna pass out. Or worse. I'm gonna heave. Not here. I can't let anyone find me like this.

He hugged the wall as he struggled to keep his feet beneath him. Coming to a door, he entered the first room he passed-luckily, the men's locker room.

Feeling his stomach lurch, he quickly dashed into the adjoining bathroom. He made it into a stall just in time as his last meal came back up. He knelt in front of the bowl, retching for several moments until he was reduced to dry heaves. Each spasm felt like a blow to his chest, and he was soon panting, his body shaking from exhaustion. He tugged on the roll of toilet paper, pulling it toward his face to wipe his mouth and chin. It took all of his remaining energy to press the metal lever to flush the toilet.

Completely spent, he leaned back against the cool metal wall of the stall, drawing his knees up to his chest. He barely winced as the motion sent a sharp stab of pain across his chest.

Pain's good. You deserve it, Drake. For all the pain you've caused-to Scott, to Jean, to their unborn child. Because of him, any hopes his friends had for a family, for a future, might be gone forever. It's your fault. All of it's your fault.

Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as he felt hopelessness grip his heart. Each sob that shook his body made his ribs ache more.

Good. You deserve this, you bastard, for the hell you've wreaked on your friends' lives. 'Friend'. Ha! He managed a derisive snigger. If this is what a friend does, I'd hate to see what you could do to them as their enemy. You're hopeless, Drake. Face it, you've screwed up royally-yet again. Only now, Scott and Jeanie and an innocent unborn life are gonna pay for your mistake. Woo hoo, triple play. When you fuck up, you really go for broke.

A sob ran through him, and he nearly choked. Christ. And what are you doing now? He swiped at his face with back of his hands. Rather than owning up to your mistakes and helping find Jean, rather than being there for Scott, you're squirreled away in a bathroom. Puking and blubbering like a pansy little boy. You're pathetic. This is all you're good for. Absolutely nothing.

Pulling his knees closer, Bobby buried his face in his arms and wept.

Jean regarded Isabella for a long moment. The other woman's face was almost as white as her nurse's uniform. "Well, Isabella? Will you help me escape?"

She licked her suddenly dry lips. "Yes. I'll do whatever I can to help you."

Jean released the breath she did not even realize she had been holding. "Come with me. I live at a school where other mutants like us are trained in the use of our powers."

Isabella smiled, but shook her head as she got to her feet. "If I go with you, he'll realize even sooner that we're gone, and he'll quickly track us down. If I stay behind, I should be able to buy you enough time to get away."

Jean regarded her for a moment. Though still ashen, Isabella looked much more put together. She was certainly putting on a brave face-whether for her own benefit, or Jean's, she was not certain. "All right. You're certain you won't come with me?"

Isabella nodded. "C'mon, it will be dawn soon. We need to get you out of here. But first we need to take care of some things in your room." Together, they quietly made their way out of the laboratory and back to Jean's hospital room.

Isabella walked to the corner closet, opened it, and pulled out a pile of blankets. She bunched them up and placed them beneath the covers on the bed, arranging them into a shape resembling a sleeping person. "Okay, now for directions. At the far end of the corridor is a staircase. Take it down several flights to the lower level. That's the sub-basement. Boiler room, backup generators, etcetera. There's also a tunnel that's part of the sewer system. I don't think it goes far, but once you get topside, you should be on the main road. We're kind of out of the way here. If you follow the road south-away from the North Star-you'll reach town in about five miles. I know it's far to walk. Here, take my shoes." She slipped off her clogs. "And my sweater." She helped Jean into the white button-down cardigan. "Do you want my whole uniform?"

"No, there's no time. I don't suppose you have a car here?" Jean asked, putting on the shoes. Luckily she and Isabella were about the same height, so they fit.

Sadly, Isabella shook her head. "Sorry, I'm just a poor starving student. I'm not even sure if I've got any cash on me. . . ." She rummaged through her uniform pockets, pulled out a few bills, which she held out. "Sorry, it's only about thirty dollars."

"Isabella. . . ."

"Go on, you're gonna need it," she insisted, pressing the money into Jean's hand and closing her fingers around it. "So, you understand my directions?"

"Yes. But aren't you coming with me at least part of the way?"

"Jean, if he finds out that I helped you escape. . . ." She let the thought go unfinished. They were both well aware of Sinister's temper. "We need to make it look like you got the better of me and snuck out. Here. . . ." She took the scalpel blade from Jean and used it to cut the plastic IV line into two long pieces. "You can tie me up with this and then shove me in the closet. Oh, and some tape for my mouth would be a nice touch," she added, retrieving some from a drawer. Finally, she held out a metal bedpan.

"What's that for?"

"You have to cold clock me."

"What? Isabella, I can't-"

The young woman laughed. "And just a few minutes ago, you were waving a scalpel in my face. Jean, if you don't . . . . well, I don't want to think about what he'll do to me if he thinks I've had any part in your escape. It's this, or the IV pump. And that thing weighs a ton. I'd rather not have my skull completely bashed in."

Jean hesitated.

"Jean, you have to. Think of your baby."

Blinking, Jean nodded. "All right. Thank you, Isabella, for everything," she said, reaching to embrace the other woman.

"I'm just sorry you're in this mess in the first place," she replied, hugging Jean back.

"Please, don't blame yourself. Just try to leave, as soon as you can."

"If he'll let me."

Jean pulled back, looked Isabella in the eyes. "I'll come back for you. I'll get reinforcements, and we'll get you out. I promise." She gave Isabella's hand a firm squeeze.

"Tie my hands and feet now, it'll make it easier." She held her wrists together, allowing Jean to fasten them together with the plastic tubing. Jean repeated the process with Isabella's ankles.

"Are they too tight?"

Isabella smiled. "They're supposed to be. Go on, now. Get the hell out of here." Hopping, Isabella turned around, so that her back was to Jean. "Godspeed, Jean."

Jean took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered a moment before bringing the metal bowl down hard on Isabella's head. The other woman crumpled to the ground.

Jean knelt down beside her, felt for Isabella's pulse, assured herself that the other woman was breathing. Placing a strip of tape over her mouth, she grabbed her beneath the arms and dragged her into the closet, trying to be as gentle as she could. God, she really missed her telekinesis. Stroking Isabella's head, she regarded her for a long moment before closing her inside.

Shutting the light, she quietly slipped out the door into the hallway, and what she hoped would ultimately lead to freedom.

**End Chapter 16**


	17. Chapter 17

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 17**

I should have called first, Dr. Foxx told herself as she drove past the main gate of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. Hell, I should have just called, period. They may not even be his.

But the fact of the matter was she was pretty damned certain that the box of earrings belonged to Bobby Drake. She recalled a conversation over bagels and coffee during which he recounted his shopping trip to the Salem Center Mall with Jean Summers to search for a birthday gift for his mother. If the situation regarding the injured woman's identity had not been so somber, the telling of the green nail polish conversation alone would have been pretty damned entertaining. As it were, when she finally got him to relax a bit and relate the adventures he and Jean had in Macy's, they were both laughing hard. She nearly snarfed coffee at one point. By the end of his tale, they were both wiping tears from their eyes.

After all he had gone through to find the perfect gift, Bobby had been quite proud of his acquisition. Funny that he had not commented on the gift being missing. But then again, he may not have even realized. Besides, it was not as though he did not have other more pressing matters on his mind at the time. But the fact remained that the earrings in the box that now rested in her coat pocket matched his description to a 'T'. To say nothing of the matter of Bobby being treated in Curtain Three, where the earrings were found, during his brief sojourn in the ER.

They had to be his. By now, he probably assumed they were lost. The proper thing to do was return them to him. His mom needed her birthday gift, after all.

Dr. Foxx drove around the circle drive, and parked in front of the mansion. Shutting the engine, she climbed out of the car and craned her neck back to get a good view of the place. She whistled loudly. These are some digs. I can't believe he gets to live here. Lucky bastard.

She felt suddenly underdressed in her pale blue scrubs. She pulled her coat closed, fastening the buttons and cinching the belt. Hopefully that made her at least slightly more presentable.

It's not like you're staying for dinner, she reminded herself. You're dropping off the earrings. Hell, you don't even have to see him. You can leave 'em with whoever answers the door. I'm sure the butler will take care of it.

Taking a deep breath, she mounted the front steps. Squaring her shoulders, she rang the bell. An old-fashioned sounding gong resounded just behind the door. As she waited, she hastily tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. When over a minute had passed, she rang the bell again. Then rapped three times with the ornate brass knocker.

"All right, all right! I am coming, posthaste!" bellowed a deep voice from the other side of the wooden door. There was the click of deadbolts being slipped open, then the rattle of the knob being turned. She heard the voice more clearly as the door started to swing inward. "Don't tell me, Jubilee: you forgot your keys yet ag-" The owner of the voice came up short as he realized that it was not his expected guest standing on the doorstep, but rather a complete and utter stranger. "Oh my stars. . . !" he gasped, mouth falling open.

Perhaps, under other circumstances, Dr. Foxx would have been startled to see the inch-long canines protruding into his gaping maw. Right now, though, she was preoccupied with the fact that the massive man standing before her was covered in dark blue fur. At least, what she could see of him that was not obscured by a white lab coat appeared furry.

To her benefit, Dr. Foxx did not faint or gasp or curse or get sick to her stomach. She did, however, continue to stare at him, nonplussed-no matter how rude she knew that to be.

"Oh . . . uhm . . . er, that is. . . ." The blue-furred man cleared his throat and pushed his small, wire-rimmed glasses up onto his nose. "Good afternoon, Miss. . . ."

She licked her lips. "It's Doctor, actually. Dr. Ashley Foxx." She held out her hand.

Surprised, he hesitated a moment before wrapping his comparatively massive hand around her own smaller one and shaking it. "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Foxx. I am-"

"Dr. Henry McCoy," she finished for him with a bright smile. "I know exactly who you are. I've followed all your research. Absolutely brilliant. It's an honor to meet you, Dr. McCoy." She pumped his hand excitedly.

He quickly lost his shell-shocked countenance as he graced her with a bright-albeit toothy-grin. "Forgive me my reticence," he said, righting himself. "You see, yours is not the typical reaction I receive when encountering a stranger-particularly one who was not expecting to look upon my hirsute visage."

She giggled. It was somehow disconcerting to hear the voice of an English professor emanating from such a . . . beastly countenance.

"Please, my good doctor, won't you come in?" He took a step back, bowing fully at the waist.

Smiling, she walked past him and into the main foyer. She got a glimpse of what appeared to be a proper sitting room to the right, and a formal dining room to the left. A magnificent wooden staircase stood directly before her.

"May I take your coat?"

She turned to face him. "That's okay, Dr. McCoy. I won't be staying long. I just came to drop something off for Dra-for Bobby Drake."

He arched an eyebrow-at least she assumed the curve of midnight-blue fur that rose directly above his glasses to be an eyebrow. "Oh? You have something for Robert? And please, call me Hank. We are colleagues, after all."

"I'm hardly in your league, Doc-"

"Uh uh uh," he interrupted, holding up a single clawed-clawed!-finger. "Hank. Henry, if you prefer. None of this doctor business. I insist. Please, don't force me to become violent. I abhor violence."

"All- all right. But only if you call me Ashley."

"It's a deal," he replied with a grin. "So you were the lucky ER physician who was assigned to Robert."

"Yes. How did you know?" Surely Bobby had not mentioned her. Had he?

"I saw your name on his paperwork. I serve as physician for all the students and teachers here at the Institute."

"I see. And you still have time to do research, amongst . . . other . . . things?"

Hank shrugged. Ever since he had publicly revealed his identity years earlier, he knew it would be impossible to hide his exploits with first the Avengers and then the X-Men from the media. While it made him a household name from countless appearances on the five o'clock news, it was quite troublesome when it came to garnering respect for his scientific research.

"Well, let me offer my thanks on behalf of everyone here for taking such wonderful care of Robert. And for putting up with him," he added with a wink.

She smiled. "Just doing my job."

"I only wish we could all receive reparation for listening to his bad jokes. Now, I believe you said you had something to drop off for him?"

"Yes. I can just leave it with you." She reached into her pocket, producing the small velvet jewelry box. "One of the janitors found this beneath the bed in the area where Bobby was treated. I suppose it must have fallen out of his coat when they were putting away his possessions."

"How fortuitous. Bobby was sure it must have been lost during the accident."

"That's what I figured. Now he won't have to buy his mother another birthday gift."

Hank's eyes widened. "You know these are to be a gift for his mother?"

She nodded. "Yeah, he told me over breakfast the other day."

"Indeed?"

"Well, Hank, if you wouldn't mind seeing that Bobby got these, I'll be on my way," she said, holding out the box.

"Nonsense. Bobby's just downstairs. I shall go fetch him without further ado. I'm sure he would like to express his appreciation to you in person for returning the jewelry. Please, make yourself comfortable in the parlor," he suggested, walking her to the room. "I shall return with Robert shortly." With a final bow, he bounded out of the room and down the foyer.

She sat down on the couch and looked around at the ornate beauty of the room: oriental rug, brocade wallpaper, oil paintings in gilded wooden frames, antique furniture that looked to be of the Victorian Era. Suddenly self-conscious dressed as she was and sitting on such an expensive sofa, she slid forward, straightened her back, and crossed her legs at the ankle as her grandmother had taught her all proper young ladies should sit when she was a little girl.

She imagined sipping a cup of tea and nibbling on some biscuits while she sat here with Hank and a gathering of other scientists and doctors, discussing the latest medical breakthroughs. One lump, please, she would tell the butler as he refilled her cup and offered her milk and sugar from his tray.

She giggled at her inane little fantasy. Lord, she had not thought about having 'tea' since she and Gram entertained her stuffed animals. After which, she would promptly pull out the black purse that served as her medical bag and make the teddy bear, unicorn, and Barbie say 'Ah' and listen to their hearts with her plastic stethoscope. Her grandmother once asked her, 'Do you want to be a nurse when you grow up, Ashley, dear?' to which she replied, 'No, I'm gonna be the doctor, Gram. I wanna give the shots!'

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. Hearing two female voices-one adult, one decidedly teenaged-she leaned forward on the couch to try to glimpse them as they entered the foyer.

". . . will be hell to pay when I learn who parked that atrocious little Honda in front of the steps," the adult declared, her voice cold and commandeering-someone used to getting her way, no doubt.

"What've you got against Hondas?" the younger woman asked. "Bobby's got a Honda. At least he did, before the, uh, accident."

"I rest my case." A pause. "So kind of them to come and greet us," said the older woman, sounding quite miffed.

As if on cue, there came a rumbling from the back of the house. Dr. Foxx watched in disbelief as a man flew past the parlor at great speed. At least, she thought it was a man. She could barely make out a torso and outstretched arms, while his bottom half seemed to be composed of fire or plasma. He certainly left a stream of smoke in his wake. Both frightened and curious, she quietly crept over to the doorway and peered into the foyer, keeping her body hidden behind the huge leaves of a potted rubber tree.

"Hey there, Jubilee," said a tall, lanky blonde man as he hugged the girl enthusiastically. He seemed only a few years older than she, and spoke with a thick Southern accent.

"Hiya, Sammy."

"Miss Frost," he said, inclining his head in greeting at the older woman. If he had been wearing a hat, Dr. Foxx was certain he would have tipped it.

"Samuel," she replied.

"Is it only you two?" he asked.

"What, you were expecting someone else?" Jubilee questioned.

"I guess I was hopin' Paige might've come with you, is all." He ducked his head as a blush crept up his fair cheeks.

"Well, Sam, you see, your sister is a student, and classes cannot be suspended every time there is a 'situation' that calls for our immediate attention." There was no mistaking the bitterness in her patronizing tone.

"But Jubilee's here, ma'am," he pointed out.

"Unfortunately, my fellow headmaster vetoed me on that account. Normally, I don't give in to Sean quite so easily, nor do I come running every time Charles or his little protégé calls. But the circumstances apparently require my special talents."

What was she going to do-freeze some poor schmoe to death with her icy glare?

"And even I am not so petty so as to kick a man when he's down. Now, shall we get down to business?"

"Sure thing, ma'am. The others are downstairs in the Ready Room. Ladies." Holding out his arm, he gestured for them to go ahead of him.

As the trio passed by the entrance to the parlor, Dr. Foxx stepped back to place the tree between her and them, inadvertently shaking some branches in the process.

"Wait!" Frost barked, bringing the teens to a halt. "Someone has been watching us," she announced loudly, turning toward the parlor. And she's a norm, she projected into their minds.

Geez, Em, for a second there I thought you were gonna call her a flatscan, Jubilee retorted through the mindlink.

"Show yourself!"

With a deep breath, Dr. Foxx stepped out from behind the plant. She tried not to stare at the Frost woman now that she was able to get a good look at her: she was dressed entirely in white, from her unbuttoned leather duster, to the snug bustier-was she really wearing a bustier?-to her skin-tight leather pants, to the stiletto boots that came to mid-thigh level. Even her blonde hair was so light so as look almost white.

"I know how this must look," the doctor said, smiling sheepishly. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. Hank told me to wait in the parlor, and-"

"Henry knows you're here?" Frost placed her hands on her hips.

She nodded.

"And he left you here, unattended?" Knowing full well that Jubilation and I would be arriving at any time. For a genius with dual degrees, that man can be quite obtuse at times.

"He said he'd be right back." Feeling suddenly bold, she walked closer. "Hi, Jubilation. How have you been?"

The girl's brow furrowed. "Do I know you?"

"You probably don't remember me. I was the doctor that treated you after your accident last summer-when you were hit by that drunk driver."

"That's right! You're the one who stitched up my head and bandaged my hands. You did a great job. I don't even have a scar." Pushing back her bangs, she showed the doctor the faint white line on her temple.

It was at that moment that Hank returned with Bobby. The two men stopped short at the sight of Dr. Foxx examining Jubilee's forehead.

"Oh my stars and garters!" Hank gasped.

"Great going, furball," Bobby muttered. "Hey Doc. Jubilee. Emma." The last name was said so coolly there was practically ice hanging from the word.

"Hey Bobby," Jubilee smiled.

"Robert," Emma replied, her own tone glacial.

"Have you all, er, met?" Hank asked.

"Jubilee is a former patient of mine," Dr. Foxx explained. "The others, though, I don't know."

"Well, then, allow me to make introductions," Hank said, stepping forward.

Henry, do you really think this is a good idea?

The best offense, Emma. . . . For all that she knows right now, this is just my place of employment.

You're delusional, McCoy.

I prefer optimistic. "Everyone, this is Dr. Ashley Foxx. It seems she's making a career out of patching up students-or former students-of this school. Ashley, this is Samuel Guthrie."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he said with a bright smile as he shook her hand.

"You have already met young Jubilation."

"Good to see you again, Jubilation."

"Call me Jubilee," she replied, cracking her gum.

"And this is Emma Frost-"

"Of Frost Enterprises," she said, ignoring the hand that was proffered to her.

"Oh." Dr. Foxx looked perplexed. "Should I have heard of it?"

Hank's eyes widened, Sam blanched, Jubilee bit her lip to keep from laughing, and Bobby grinned as Emma's fair complexion gained significant color.

"So, uh, what brings you to our humble abode, Dr. Foxx?" Jubilee quickly asked.

"Oh. I was, uhm, just returning something that Bobby left at the hospital." Reaching into her pocket, she produced the small velvet box.

"Ooh, what's that?" Jubilee asked, walking closer. "More importantly, who's the lucky girl?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Emma cross her arms and gaze at him expectantly. Feeling his own cheeks flush, he avoided her eyes and took the box from Dr. Foxx, his fingers lightly brushing her palm in the process. "It's a birthday gift for my mom," he explained. "Earrings." He hastily shoved the box into his pants pocket. "Thanks for returning this, Doc. I really thought it fell out in the car during the accident." He smiled at her.

Oh, isn't this touching, Emma projected. And me without my Kleenex.

No one asked you, Emma.

Well, it's obviously a good thing that I arrived when I did. Bring her downstairs, and I'll take care of this little mess.

Take care how?

By mind-wiping her, of course.

"What!" Bobby was so taken aback that he voiced his protest out loud.

"Drake?" Dr. Foxx questioned. "What's wrong?"

"I, uh, thought Emma said something." He offered Emma a cold glare.

"No, actually, I said that I'm just glad you were able to get the earrings back." There was no mistaking the predatory look Emma was giving her, nor the way it made her involuntarily shiver. "Wh-what's going on?"

"Nothing, Doc," he assured her. "Nothing at all." You will not touch her mind, Emma. I won't allow it.

She laughed in his head. Your meager attempts at male posturing are quite entertaining, Bobby. But the fact remains that security has been compromised. This woman knows our secrets. The threat of exposure is too great. We must ensure that she remembers nothing of what she saw here.

She's not going to tell anyone, Emma. She's not that kind of person.

How can you be certain of that? You barely know her.

I know her well enough. I'll take care of it.

This concerns more than you or I, Bobby. I have an entire school of mutant children for whom I'm responsible. I will not see them come to harm because your little doctor friend decides to let it slip to a nurse, who tells her cousin the news reporter that there's a school that all the mutie kids attend.

I said I'll take care of it, Emma. Now get the fuck out of my head! He clamped down on his thoughts then, erecting the meager mental shields that Xavier and Jean had taught him over the years.

"Am I missing something?" Dr. Foxx asked Bobby before looking to Hank in confusion. "I feel like I walked into the theater in the middle of the movie."

"Nothing you need to worry about," Bobby said. Ignoring Emma, he offered her his full attention. "Hey, Doc, would you like to take a walk? The grounds are especially beautiful this time of year, when the leaves are changing colors."

"Uhm, sure, Drake. I'd love to." She looked at Hank. "Will you be joining us?"

Before Hank could reply, Bobby spoke. "No, these guys have got some . . . school business to attend to. C'mon, Doc, we can go out through the kitchen." Placing a hand on the small of her back, he gently pushed her forward, guiding her toward the back of the house. They made their way into the kitchen, and Bobby reached to unlock the door. "I'll admit, it's not as nice as the spring or summer, when everything's in bloom. Ororo loves to garden-I swear, the woman has ten green thumbs-and she helps make the place look like an arboretum." He opened the door, and bade her pass through.

She did, and he followed her outside. They headed down a stone path that was flanked with various types of greenery.

"So what's with you and Emma?" she asked him.

"What do you mean?"

"I could practically cut the tension with a knife back there. She an old girlfriend or something?"

"Not exactly." He shoved his hands into his pockets, concentrating his gaze on the trees in the distance.

"I'm sorry, Drake. It's none of my business."

"No, that's okay." He sighed. "It's just, things with Emma are . . . complicated."

She nodded, though she did not appear to completely follow. "Well, she doesn't exactly seem to be a simple person to understand."

"She's not."

"I'll say one thing about her, though: she's certainly got . . . interesting taste in clothing. I hate to think how many albino cows gave their lives to fill her leather wardrobe."

They laughed. Soon, though, they grew quiet. Before long, the silence grew uncomfortable.

They both started to talk at the same time, which elicited another chuckle.

"Go ahead," he said.

"No, you go first," she told him.

"All right." He took a deep breath. "Doc, I think we need to talk."

"Yes, I think we do."

"There's a bench over there, by that oak tree. Want to go sit down?" he suggested.

"Sure." She walked with him off of the path and up a small hill. Together, they sat down side-by-side on the cool marble. "So. . . ."

"So," he repeated. He took another breath. "I'm sure you're wondering about all that you've seen and heard here today."

"I'd say that's a fair assumption, yes," she agreed.

"Just, uhm, how much did you hear before Hank and I came upstairs?"

She sighed as she ran her hands down the fabric of the coat covering her lap. "Enough to confirm the suspicions I already had formed at the hospital."

He looked at her in surprise. "What sort of suspicions?"

"There were enough little things that each sent up a red flag. Separately, I might have been able to ignore them. But together, they just made the possibility more and more likely."

"Doc, I want to make sure we're on the same page here. What is it you suspect?"

She turned to face him. "Drake, I know that you and your friends-fellow teachers, students, whatever you want to call each other-are mutants."

For his part, Bobby was able to keep his expression neutral.

"I'm guessing the reason Emma was so pissed that I was there was because she fears that I'll reveal your secrets. But let me assure you, I won't say a word to anyone." She placed her hand on his, where it lay on the bench between them. "They're not my secrets to tell."

"Doc-"

"No, let me finish." When he nodded, she continued. "I realize you don't know me from Adam. But in the few days since I've met you, gotten to know you, I've realized something. You're a good man, Bobby Drake. You may not always be serious, that's true, but when push comes to shove, you pull through. You know where your loyalties lie, and when someone you care about is in need, you're there for them, unconditionally. Your friends obviously mean a lot to you, and you'd move heaven and earth if it meant helping them. To have found people like that-who it seems would do the same for you-must mean that you're a halfway decent judge of character.

"So I'm hoping, then, that you can recognize the truth about me. When I give someone my word, I keep it. Just as I took the Hippocratic Oath the day I became a doctor, promising to 'Do no harm,' today I offer you the same sentiment. I'm not some crazy right-wing human rights fundamentalist. I don't support the Friends of Humanity or believe in genetic purity for the species. I'm a supporter of mutant rights. I believe that someone like you-" she squeezed his hand for emphasis- "is just as human as me. We're no different, you and I. We each have special talents. Mine is helping to heal people using my knowledge of science, whereas yours is. . . ." She paused, brow furrowing. "Just what the heck can you do?"

Smiling, Bobby raised his free hand, palm upwards. A small sphere of mist began to gather an inch above his hand. She watched, entranced, as the water droplets in the air gathered, coalesced, and condensed, forming frost. As the mist parted, he held out to her a long-stemmed rose fashioned entirely of ice.

Mouth agape, she accepted his gift, stared down at it admiringly. "It's . . . beautiful." She cocked her head to the side, examining it more carefully. "It's a perfect replica." She looked up at him then, her admiration evident. "So that's why you weren't burned in the car fire. You somehow manipulated the moisture in the air to create a protective coating of ice?" she postulated.

"Not exactly, but you're close." He rose to his feet and walked about a yard in front of her, turned to face her. He extended his arms to the side and concentrated, transforming into his ice-form. "When my powers first manifested back when I was a kid, I coated myself with a layer of snow. I sorta looked like Frosty with boots," he explained. "As I got older, and learned to control my powers, I covered my body with a layer of ice, as you suggested. In more recent times, though, with a little push from my colleagues-" the thought of Emma's manipulations when she had taken over his mind still remained bittersweet- "I have since learned to transform my human form into something else."

"When you complete the transformation, do you remain corporeal?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" Lord, she was sounding like Hank all of a sudden.

"Are you tangible?" she clarified, getting up and reaching toward him. She gasped as her hand touched the solid ice that composed his chest. She shivered as she pulled her arm back. "You're cold."

"What'd you expect?"

She chuckled. "Good point." She slowly walked around him, studying him carefully. She watched the way rivulets of mist floated upwards and dissipated. "Wow," she said, noticing that her breath was fogging from being in such close proximity to him. "Cool!" she declared. He laughed, and she suddenly realized her faux pas. "Uhm, no pun intended."

Still laughing, he returned to human form and sat back down.

She resumed her own seat. "May I?" she asked, reaching for his hand.

"Sure."

She took his hand in hers, touching the flesh with her fingertips. This time it was he who shivered. "Are you always this cool?"

"Usually. I rarely sweat, since I can manipulate by body's temperature. My core temp is a little lower than most people's, but only by a few degrees. According to Hank, anyway."

"That makes sense," she said, nodding. "If your temperature became too low, enzymes would stop working, the normal chemical reactions that took place in your body would cease, and you would die."

He found it surprisingly refreshing the way she was approaching her newfound knowledge with a scientist's curiosity.

"What does it feel like?"

"What? Using my powers?"

"Yes, and transforming your body into ice. Does it hurt?"

He shook his head. "Nah, it doesn't hurt. I'm not sure how to describe it."

"Does it feel . . . good?"

"It feels right. Natural." He looked down at her hands, which still held his between them.

"Oh, sorry," she said self-consciously as she released his hand. She pulled hers back into her lap, absently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"That's okay," he said with a smile. "Other than when Hank runs some tests, I don't usually have people asking me about my powers. It's kinda neat."

"To have someone interested, you mean?"

"Yeah. Having someone interested." He looked at her.

She met his gaze and smiled. When he did not look away, she blinked and lowered her eyes.

"So, Doc, you mind if I ask you some questions now?"

"Me? Sure. Though I don't think anything I have to tell you will be quite as interesting."

"I'm just curious. You said there were a lot of little things that made you realize we were mutants. What all were they?"

She grinned. "Well, for starters, there was your lack of burn injuries. There was all the talk about Jean being switched with that other woman-that was a little weird. A bit too sci-fi for my tastes, anyway. Then there was your strange request for a blood sample. I tried to make myself believe your rationalization that the MD/PhD you had on staff at the school had genetic records of all the teachers-though, again, that was a bit too Gattaca for me. I take it it was Hank who analyzed the sample?"

Bobby nodded. "Anything else?"

"Well, there was also the . . . unusual appearance of your friends. Ororo, with her white hair and blue eyes. Scott, who wore sunglasses indoors, even at night. That struck me as a little odd, the first time I met him and Jean last summer. And then meeting Hank just a little while ago, who has already 'come out' as it were as being a mutant, pretty much cinched it for me."

"Wow, that's pretty good detective work on your part, Doc. I'm impressed."

She shrugged. "Elementary, my dear Watson. No big stretch of the imagination. Mostly observation. So, is everyone I've met so far a mutant? What are their powers?"

He grinned at her enthusiasm, but hesitated to reply.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She had the good graces to blush. "Aw geez, is that like asking someone's bra size? I didn't mean to be rude."

He laughed. "No, it's not that. It's usually one of the first things we inquire about when we meet a new mutant, along with their name and favorite color. It's just, given the situation here, I don't think it's my place."

She nodded knowingly. "They're not your secrets to tell."

"Exactly. You're not, uh, mad at me, are you?"

"Not at all. It's you who should be put off by me, being so nosey. Sorry, I'm just inquisitive by nature. Goes along with the science background."

"Oh, believe me, I understand. I've known Hank since we were kids. And no one's more curious than that guy. His parents should have named him George."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For trusting me enough to share your secret with me. It means a lot."

"Hey, no big deal."

"Yes, it is. I just want you to know that I realize that. And I won't let you down."

He nodded. "I know."

They sat together, and this time the silence was comfortable.

"Well," she said finally, as she rose, "I should get going."

"And I should probably get downstairs and see if I can lend a hand," he said, also rising. "I'll walk you out." Together they returned to the stone path that led back toward the mansion.

"I heard from Dr. Philips that the dental records weren't a match. Any luck in locating Jean?"

He shook his head. "None yet. That's why Emma's here-we're hoping she can help."

"With all the connections she's got from her company, Frost Enterprises?"

"Doc. . . ." His tone was warning.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just couldn't resist. 'Hi, I'm Emma Frost. Of Frost Enterprises. It's an escort service for high-paying businessmen. We specialize in S and M.' " Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oops, did I say that? I don't know what came over me."

Bobby could not help but laugh. "You're bad, Doc. Really bad. That's what I like about you." They entered the kitchen, and made their way back to the main foyer. They stopped in front of the door, and stood facing each other.

"If there's anything else I can do, some way I can help you find Jean, just let me know, okay?"

"I will. Thanks again for returning my mom's earrings."

"No problem. You take care of yourself, Drake." She held out her hand.

He clasped it in his own while meeting her eyes. "You too, Doc." He held her gaze for several long moments before finally reaching to open the door for her.

She descended the front steps. "Next time you hurt yourself saving the world, feel free to stop by," she called before climbing into her car. "I'll patch you up." With a final wave, she drove around the circle and down the drive, making a right onto Greymalkin Lane.

**End Chapter 17**


	18. Chapter 18

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 18**

Isabella had been sitting in darkness for what felt like hours. She was sure it could not have been more than thirty minutes or so-though who knew how long she had been unconscious. Her head did not hurt too badly. That was something, anyway. Hopefully by now Jean had managed to get far, far away. God, what a fool she had been to follow Gauche, to do his bidding without question. Somehow she had managed to become an accomplice in kidnapping. When did her life start spiraling out of control? And what would happen next? If what Jean said was true-and she had no reason to doubt her-then Gauche-no, Sinister, Jean said his name was Sinister, she quickly corrected herself-was going to be beyond pissed. He was going to be seeing red. He was going to have to redirect his anger somewhere. Which meant she might as well be wearing a giant bull's eye on her forehead.

Hearing noise in the room for the first time since she revived, Isabella froze, holding her breath. Someone was there. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Time to continue with her act. You can do this, she told herself. You have to do this-for Jean. For her baby. You have to buy them as much time as possible.

She rolled onto her side to rest her weight on her hip and used her feet to bang on the door, trying to shout as much as she was able to with her mouth taped. She bent her knees and kicked the door a second time. A third.

Suddenly, the door was pulled back, and light from the room rushed into the closet, blinding her. Isabella blinked, trying to make out the figure silhouetted before her.

"What happened?" a voice growled. His voice.

Isabella tried to suppress a shudder. Rough hands grabbed her shoulders, dragged her out of the closet, hoisted her roughly to her feet. He took an end of the tape and pulled it off of her mouth in one sweep, causing her to cry out in shock and pain.

"Where-is-she!" he grated out.

"I . . . I . . . I d-d-don't know," Isabella stuttered, her voice little more than a whisper. "I c-came in to ch-check on h-her. . . . All I s-saw was a quick m-m-movement. . . . I w-woke up in the closet. . . . with a h-headache."

"I thought she was drugged. How the hell did she get the better of you?"

"I t-told you, Dr. Gauche. . . . she s-sur-surpised me. I d-didn't see it c-c-coming."

"You incompetent ignoramus! I ask you to babysit one woman, and you can't even do that right!" He glowered at her.

"I-I'm sorry, Dr. Gauche. I'm sorry." Bowing her head, she could not fight the tears-mostly of fright-from falling.

He stopped shaking in fury, and grabbed a scalpel blade to undo her bindings. "Are you hurt, my dear?" he asked, his voice suddenly soft, almost kind.

"Just my head," she murmured.

"Let me see," he said, walking behind her to examine the crown of her skull. She winced as his fingers gently probed the small lump below her hair. "Just a bump. I doubt you even have a concussion." His hand slid down her head, past her neck, coming to rest on her shoulder. He gripped her there, his hand like a cold metal vise.

Isabella's mouth trembled as she fought to maintain even breathing.

"There's one thing I don't understand, my dear."

"Wh-what's that. . . ?"

"Jean Summers is a resourceful enough woman to manage to cold clock you, bind you, and make her escape. But how on earth could she determine how to leave the building? All the main exits are guarded. How could she get out of here, without inside help?"

"I- I don't know," Isabella whispered. "Maybe she's still in the hospital somewhere?"

He laughed then. A cold, baleful sound, that made her blood run suddenly cold.

She felt his hand release her shoulder-a moment before he walked in front of her and grabbed her by the throat.

Isabella gasped, even as hot tears ran down her face. "Please. . . ."

"Why did you help her?" he demanded, his voice even but cold.

"I didn't-"

"Don't lie to me!" he snarled, fingers squeezing her larynx.

Isabella cried out, even as she cowered before him.

"Did I not take you in, offer you work, a purpose? And all I asked in return was that you do as told. And how do you repay my kindness? By betraying me."

"N-no. . . ."

"I said don't lie to me!" he growled, anger making his eyes look blood-red. "Your meddling may have cost me the prize that I have been searching for for years."

"You mean . . . Jean's baby? You want . . . to steal . . . her baby."

He grit his teeth, giving the appearance of a mouthful of daggers. "Has she been filling your head with lies?" he demanded, even as he raised her off the ground, above his head.

Isabella grabbed at his hand, her efforts useless, as she struggled to draw breath.

"You had better pray that we are able to locate her, and bring her back. In any case, you will be punished for your deceit. It's simply a matter of how. Now, I have had quite enough of you. Out of my sight!"

He merely pushed, and Isabella flew across the room, her body slamming hard into the far wall. She heard a sharp crack even as her mind was diffused with pain. By the time she slumped to the ground, her world had gone mercifully dark.

Feeling the truck come to a stop, Jean held her breath and listened. A moment later, the engine was shut off, and she felt movement as the driver disembarked, slamming the door behind him. She forced herself to remain still, counting off the seconds until a full two minutes had passed. When she heard no further noise, she finally allowed herself to move. Pushing back the tarp, she poked her head out into the cool night air. Glancing around, she saw that she was in the parking lot of a diner. There were plenty of other cars around, obviously dozens of people inside the restaurant. That was good. Safety in numbers.

Sliding out from beneath the tarp, she carefully climbed out of the back of the pick-up truck, thankful that no one else was in the parking lot. Thus far, her luck had been holding. When she had emerged through a manhole from the sewers below Gauche's clinic, it had been maybe a half-mile hike to the nearest gas station. She had hidden behind surrounding trees, biding her time until she was able to pilfer a trench coat from the backseat of a car while the owner visited the Kwik-E Mart. It was not much longer when the pick-up truck had arrived, and the driver visited the restroom, giving her the opportunity to climb into the back. Now, what she estimated to be about an hour or so later, she was in an even more public place, with the prospect of food before her.

Cinching the belt of the trench coat, Jean opened the front door of the diner and stepped inside, accompanied by the tinkling of a bell. She was immediately assailed by the scent of strong coffee and grease. It made her mouth water and her stomach growl. She was just thankful it didn't lurch, considering that up until a few days ago, she had been plagued with morning sickness.

"How many?" a waitress asked, approaching her.

"Just me," Jean replied.

The server glanced around. "We're kinda full. Counter okay?"

"That's fine."

The woman led Jean to the counter, plopping a worn menu in front of an empty stool. "Someone'll be over shortly to take your order."

"Thanks." Jean hoisted herself onto the cracked vinyl cushion. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, trying to reach out with her mind. Still nothing. It was like staring into a black void. She had hoped that once she had gotten far enough away from the clinic her powers would return, but still she did not feel even a twinge of awareness. She sighed in frustration. She hated being headblind.

Jean reached into the coat pocket, where she had since placed the money Isabella had given her. Thirty-four dollars. She should save some of it, to get her to the nearest bus or train station. She considered phoning home, of calling the cavalry to come get her. But she quickly thought better of it. She wouldn't put it past Sinister to have surrounding phones taped, or at the very least the lines monitored.

To her left, a middle-aged man in a suit was attempting to use his cell-phone. She watched surreptitiously as he tried several numbers, all to no avail.

"No signal?" she ventured, striking up a conversation.

"Not in the parking lot, not in here," he man replied, fussing with the antenna. "Hell, not in my car a few minutes before I got here. And it's not like it's overcast. Local tower must be down or something. Good thing my company still issues phone cards," he muttered, getting to his feet and heading for the payphone.

So much for asking to borrow someone's cell, Jean silently mused. Could Sinister be jamming cellular signals as well? She was probably being overly paranoid, but at this point in time, she did not want to chance trying a land line or a cellular. No, better to try to find some sort of public transportation, and to contact Scott when she was closer to home.

Her stomach rumbled again, reminding her of more pressing needs. Don't worry, baby, dinner's coming, she thought, glancing down at her middle. Picking up the menu, she began to peruse its contents.

It was not long before an older waitress with whitish-blue hair approached from the other side of the counter. She placed a glass of ice water in front of Jean. "What can I getcha, hon?" she asked, pulling a receipt pad out from the front pocket of her apron and a pen from behind her ear.

"I'd like a cheeseburger deluxe, please. Medium-well."

"Anything to drink?"

"What type of hot tea do you have? Anything without caffeine?"

"Sorry, no-all we've got is Lipton. None of the herbal stuff. You want some decaff coffee?"

Jean shook her head. "No. I'll have a glass of milk instead."

Arching an eyebrow, the woman continued to scribble on her pad. "Anything else?"

"No, that's it, thanks."

"I'll be right back with your drink," the waitress said, taking the menu.

Pushing her hair back off of her face, Jean rested her elbows on the counter with a sigh.

"Here you go, hon," the waitress said, placing a tall glass of milk in front of her.

"Thank you," Jean replied, picking up the glass and taking several long gulps. The cool liquid soothed her parched throat.

She glanced first to her right, where a truck-driver looking type was shoveling in bacon, eggs, and homefries, all smothered in ketchup. She then looked to her left, where the man in the suit was back, now reading the paper as he sipped his cup of coffee. Jean nonchalantly tried to eye the name of newspaper in hopes of learning her location.

Her luck apparently continued to hold out, for at that moment, the man rose to his feet, tossing some bills onto the counter beside his plate, and headed for the door, leaving his newspaper behind. As soon as he was gone, Jean snatched up the paper, turning back to the front page. The Daily Herald, Omaha's Hometown Newspaper. So she was in Nebraska. Over 1000 miles from home. Jesus, she'd be lucky if the money got her to Kansas, let alone all the way to New York. Well, her best bet would still be to get as far away from here as possible before trying to contact home. God, if only her powers were working-she could contact Scott telepathically and telekinetically begin the journey home.

"One cheeseburger deluxe, medium-well," the waitress announced, placing the plate full of burger, fries, onion rings, pickle, and cole slaw in front of Jean. "Enjoy, hon."

"Thanks." Spreading her napkin on her lap, Jean placed the cole slaw aside before adding ketchup to the burger and fries. Picking up the burger with both hands, she took a big bite. Closing her eyes in satisfaction, she savored the flavor as she chewed. God, it felt like forever since she had had a proper meal. Not since she and Bobby had gone out for lunch after their shopping trip.

Blinking, she tried to push thoughts of Bobby aside. There would be more than enough time to deal with her grief once she was back home, safe and sound. Popping a fry into her mouth, she instead forced herself to make plans for the next step in her journey. Perhaps she could ask the waitress where she might find the nearest train station. Surely there had to be one in downtown Omaha.

"How is everything?" the waitress asked, walking back over.

"Great," Jean managed to say with a mouthful of burger.

"You want a refill?" the woman asked, indicating the nearly-empty glass of milk.

Jean nodded as she lifted the napkin to wipe her mouth. "Thank you." She continued to devour her meal, washing it down with the second glass of milk the waitress brought her. Within ten minutes, she was polishing off the last of the fries.

"All done?" the waitress asked.

Jean nodded. "That really hit the spot."

"You don't want the slaw?"

Jean shook her head and she finished the last bit of milk.

"Care for some dessert, hon?"

"I don't think I can. I'm stuffed," Jean said, placing her hand on her full stomach.

"You sure? We've got some peach cobbler that's sure to satisfy the sweet craving you're gonna get now that you've had your fill of salt."

Jean regarded the older woman questioningly.

"Me, I developed the biggest sweet tooth when I was carrying my eldest, Michael Junior. It was just as bad with Beth and Joanne," she added with a wink.

For a moment, Jean just stared at the waitress in disbelief. Was it simply a matter of longtime maternal perception, or could this woman be a spy for Sinister? God, Jean, you're just being paranoid, she told herself.

Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile. "Well, I think I'll have to pass. If I eat any more, I think I'll pop. Just the check, please."

"Sure thing, hon." Totaling up the bill, the waitress ripped off the top sheet of her pad and held it out. As Jean took it, there was no mistaking the way the other woman's eyes widened, even as she did not release her hold.

Jean followed the waitress's gaze, saw it was focused on the hospital band around her wrist that was peeking out from the sleeve of her coat. The woman then looked at Jean's face and torso more carefully. Swallowing, Jean quickly folded up her coat collar, trying to cover the bit of hospital gown that she was sure must have been exposed.

"Where's the bathroom?" Jean asked, counting out bills to pay for her dinner.

"Back of the diner, all the way on the right."

"Thanks," Jean replied, avoiding the woman's eyes, as she tucked enough money under her plate to cover the bill and a generous tip. Reaching beside the plate, she surreptitiously grabbed a utensil, which she pocketed along with the remainder of her cash before she quickly got up and headed for the restroom.

As soon as she was out of sight, she silently cursed herself. Damn damn damn! God only knows what's going through her head now. How could you be so careless! Walking to the sink, she turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on her face. As she ripped off a piece of paper towel to dry off, she glanced into the mirror. Something caught her eye behind her, over her shoulder.

Turning around, Jean saw a bank of lockers. Hanging on the outside of one was someone's spare uniform-a pink short-sleeve, short-skirted waitress' outfit, complete with matching red apron. It looked to be about her size. Well, it beats the hell out of this hospital gown, she told herself.

Before she lost her nerve, Jean snatched the dress and disappeared into a stall. She quickly stripped off her coat, sweater, and gown, donning the uniform. It was slightly snug around the middle, and she had to leave the two uppermost buttons of the bodice open. Looking down, she silently regarded her chest, and the noticeable effects of the first few months of her pregnancy. I think I'm going to have to expand my wardrobe when I get home, she realized. She quickly replaced the cardigan, and then her coat. Emerging from the stall, she quickly stuffed the hospital gown into the trash, burying it beneath a layer of crumpled-up paper towels.

Only one thing left." Reaching into her coat pocket, she produced the knife she had pilfered from the counter. Slipping the cool metal against her wrist, she placed the serrated edge against the back of the plastic band and began to saw. It was slow going, but she was making gradual progress.

There was sudden noise by the doorway. Jean managed to slip into a stall just as the door opened. Peeking through the gap between the door and the stall wall, Jean watched as a young blonde waitress checked her hair in the mirror, and then disappeared into the other stall.

Holding her breath, Jean turned around and continued to work at the bracelet.

A minute later, there was a flush, and the waitress walked over to the sink to wash her hands. As she was drying her hands, Jean peaked out to see a second brunette waitress entering the rest room.

"Hey Darlene," said the first woman.

"Hi Betty," replied the second waitress.

"You starting your shift?"

"Yeah. Did you see those weirdoes who just came in?" Darlene asked.

"No, must've just missed 'em. There another Harley convention?"

"Not quite. It's a guy and a gal. The woman looks like a body-builder-must be nearly six feet, butch as hell. The guy's shorter, with a long ponytail and a scraggly mustache. Moves awfully stiff-worse'n a cowboy with jock itch."

They giggled.

"Both're wearing long dark coats, almost like they're coverin' up whatever they're wearing. Or what they're packin'. Gave off a weird vibe, is all. 'Specially since they weren't interested in eating."

"What the hell they doing in a diner, then?" Betty wondered.

"Asking a lot of questions. They claim to be security, from that private hospital, over on Forrest Street. Said they're looking for-get this-an escaped mental patient."

"No shit?"

"Had a picture with 'em. Pretty red-headed lady. Warned that she was delusional, would probably claim she had been kidnapped."

"Redhead, you say? Ruth was serving a redhead at the counter."

"Was she now?" Darlene asked as she shoved her coat into her locker and grabbed her apron. "Maybe we should go make sure they speak to her."

"That, or just leave well enough alone," Betty suggested. "If this couple is as weird as you say, maybe we should just keep our noses out of it."

"Well, let's go talk to Ruth first. Let her. . . ." Their voices faded away as they exited the bathroom.

As soon as they were gone, Jean breathed a sigh of relief. It can't be them. It can't. They're supposed to be dead. She suppressed a nervous laugh. Just liked I died. And Sinister, more than once. So why should I be surprised if two of his Marauders are still around. I've got to get out of here-now. She worked at the bracelet vigorously, and with a snap, it finally broke open.

Oh, thank God. She started to exit the stall when a sudden wave of vertigo washed over her. With a gasp, she grabbed onto the wall for support. She closed her eyes and took several deep, cleansing breaths. She realized suddenly that her mind was filled with a newfound sense of awareness. Carefully, she reached out with her mind, focusing the gentle probe inward.

She smiled broadly, able to sense the life growing within her. Oh baby, you're okay, she thought, bringing a hand to her belly. Something caught her eye then: there was a tiny flash from the inside of the bracelet. Lifting it closer, Jean scrutinized the lining of the band. Beneath the clear plastic, she saw what appeared to be a miniscule microchip. What the hell? Jean levitated it into the air, and the chip began to blink, flashing a bright yellow light.

I'll be damned. This bracelet must have been serving as some sort of power inhibitor. And now it's somehow registering the use of my telepathy or telekinesis. What a sneaky bastard.

Snatching the bracelet out of the air, Jean dropped it into the bowl and pressed the metal lever, watching it get sucked down the toilet with a satisfied grin. Track that, Sinister. Better wear your waders, though.

Replacing the knife in her coat pocket in case she needed it later, Jean quietly opened the stall door and walked back into the bathroom. She slowly opened the main door and stepped into the vestibule, listening carefully. Peering around the wall into the diner proper, she glanced toward the counter. And tried not to gasp as she caught sight of the familiar faces.

The older waitress she now knew was named Ruth was standing behind the counter, talking with the man and woman Jean knew as Scalphunter and Arclight. Mutant Marauders. Killers. Sinister's cronies. Scalphunter was holding up a photo toward Ruth. The waitress shook her head adamantly, which only seemed to enrage Arclight. Just then, the waitress who had seated Jean approached, and pointed toward the back of the diner. Arclight inclined her head toward the restrooms, and Scalphunter pulled out some sort of handheld metal device, directing it to the area of the restrooms. He smiled smugly, and a moment later, they were on the move.

Oh shit, Jean thought, slipping back behind the wall. They must have some sort of tracker-probably picks up on my mutant signature. She hurried back into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She looked around, desperately searching for some sort of hiding place. To the right of the lockers, near the ceiling, she spied a pair of dirty curtains. Reaching up, she tugged at them, saw that they were covering a small window.

Seeing a chair in the opposite corner, Jean quickly dragged it over to beneath the window. She climbed onto it, and reached for the windowsill. It was going to be a bit of a stretch.

Just then, she heard someone try to open the door. They would be inside in a matter of seconds.

Here goes nothing, she thought, hauling herself up onto the sill. There was a flimsy screen, which she started to lift, and then tossed outside as it came free. Grunting, she pulled herself up, resting her stomach on the sill as she looked outside. It looked to be about an eight foot drop.

You can do this, she told herself. She threw a leg over the sill, straddling it for a moment. How much easier it would be to telekinetically lower herself to the ground. But that would also make it that much simpler for the Marauders to locate her. At least this way she could slip away with a head start.

With a final glance at the ground, Jean pulled her other leg over the sill and gripped it tightly with both hands as she lowered herself down the wall, scraping her bare legs on the peeling paint. With a deep breath, she used her feet to push off and let go of the sill, falling the last yard or so. She landed on her feet, and managed to keep her balance.

Got to remember not to rib on Scott for those no-power Danger Room sessions. Thoughts of her husband made her consider contacting him telepathically. But what if they detect me? she wondered. But if you don't make contact, he's never going to be able to find you. She spared a glance back at the window she just exited through, hedging. What's it gonna be, Jean? Will you risk it? You've got to decide-quickly.

Taking a deep breath, Jean closed her eyes in concentration and reached out with her mind.

Scott! Scott, can you hear me?

She felt the familiar presence of Scott in her head-one that she had been missing for too long. She could sense his initial confusion, which quickly changed to a mixture of relief and worry. Abruptly, she felt a third presence through their mindlink-also familiar to her. Nathan.

Jean, is that you?

Yes, she told Scott.

Oh, thank God. Are you okay? What about the baby? Where are you? What's hap-

Just then, she heard a crash coming from inside the diner bathroom. Scalphunter and Arclight would be after her momentarily, just as soon as their little device picked up readings on the use of her powers. She had to end the telepathic exchange-now.

We're fine, Scott. I can't maintain the link, or they'll trace it and pinpoint my location. Love you. With a final mental projection, she quickly terminated the contact and shut down the link.

Dammit! I need to get out of here. Glancing around, she headed back for the parking lot, ideas of telekinetically hot-wiring a car filling her head.

As she rounded the side of the diner, she walked right into someone, her body colliding with his with an audible thud. Jean jumped back with a gasp, bracing herself on the balls of her feet, prepared to fight or flee.

"Pardon me, ma'am," the man replied, tipping the brim of his baseball cap. "It's so dark, I didn't see you there."

Jean looked up at the familiar bearded face. It was the man who had been sitting to the right of her at the counter. She held her breath, wondering if he would recognize her.

"You just get off work?" he asked.

"Huh?" Jean looked at him questioningly for a moment before she realized that her coat was open, and the waitress uniform she wore in plain view. "Oh, yeah. Just ended my shift. Busy night."

"You having car trouble or something?"

Jean regarded him silently, and without the aid of her telepathy decided that he was a trustworthy-enough fellow. "As a matter of fact," she began, pulling her coat closed and giving a little shiver against the cool night wind, "it seems my ride never showed. I'm stranded."

"Can I give you a lift somewhere?" he offered. "My rig and I are headed east on the interstate."

Jean smiled sweetly. "That would be wonderful, so long as it's not any trouble."

"No trouble at all, ma'am. I'm happy to oblige. I'm Jimmy, by the way. Jimmy Hart." He held out his hand.

"Jean," she replied, shaking it. "You ready to head out now, Jimmy?"

"Sure thing. My rig's right over there," he said, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.

Nodding, Jean spared a quick glance over her shoulder before following Jimmy to his truck. No sign of Scalphunter or Arclight-yet. Jimmy opened the passenger-side door and held out a hand. Smiling, Jean held his hand for support as she stepped up into the cab. Shutting the door, Jimmy jogged back over to the driver's side and got inside.

"What are you hauling?" Jean asked as she fastened her seatbelt.

"Nuts."

"Excuse me?"

"All sorts of nuts. Peanuts, mostly. But some cashews, almonds, macadamias. All sorts of mixed nuts."

Jean smiled. "So where's your top hat, cane, and spats?"

"Uh uh," Jimmy replied as he set the truck in reverse, which caused a loud beeping to be issued in warning. "That's the competition."

"Oh. My bad."

"That's okay, it's an honest mistake. So, where can I drop you?"

Jean glanced out the side-view mirror as they made their way toward the highway. She thought she saw movement back behind the diner.

"You won't happen to pass a train station, will you?"

Jimmy's brow furrowed. "The Greyhound Station's along my route, if I remember correctly. Why, you going somewhere?"

Jean could now make out the silhouette of two people coming up beside the diner, looking around the parking lot as though in search of someone. "As a matter of fact, I was heading out of town for the weekend. Visiting my sister."

"Without any luggage?" Jimmy asked, waiting for cars to pass before making a right onto the interstate.

"Oh, I visit Sara regularly, have a bunch of stuff there." She watched as Scalphunter made a circuit with his tracking device. As he pointed it in their direction, he stopped, staring down at it before shouting to Arclight.

"Where's she live?"

C'mon, c'mon, make the turn, Jean thought nervously. At any moment, the Marauders were going to rush the truck. She was going to have enough trouble fighting for her freedom then without worrying about protecting an innocent civilian. "Sara's in Kansas City," Jean replied, amazed that she was able to keep her voice calm.

"Kansas City? That's got to be, what, at least an eight-hour trip. You're first heading there now?" Jimmy started to make the wide turn onto the highway.

"I prefer to travel overnight," Jean explained, her eyes fixed in the side-view mirror, as she watched the two mutants sprinting toward the truck. "I sleep on the bus."

"I can never sleep on a bus," Jimmy remarked conversationally as he started to pick up speed. "Besides, I'm a night owl anyway."

Gripping the seat tightly, Jean watched as Scalphunter ran into the middle of the highway. He would surely have been run over by a passing SUV if Arclight had not suddenly grabbed him by the back of the coat and yanked. That was the last thing she saw before the truck sped down a hill, masking them from sight. Jean let out an audible sigh of relief.

"You okay?" Jimmy asked.

"Hmm?" Jean turned to look at him. "Oh yeah, I'm fine. Just a little beat, is all."

"I'll bet, with the kind of business that diner drums up. Best greasy spoon in town."

"Mmm." With her belly full and the adrenaline rush of the chase fading, Jean suddenly felt exhausted. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open.

Jimmy smiled. "You do sound beat. Why don't you get some shut-eye, and I'll wake you when we get to the bus station."

As much as Jean wished she could give in to her exhaustion, and though she wished she could trust this man, she could not permit herself to let her guard down so completely.

I have to stay awake, she told herself. Glancing across the dashboard, she watched the nodding of a bobble-headed Dalmatian, but quickly realized that the mesmerizing movements were going to have the opposite effect she desired. Looking directly below the doll, she caught sight of a photo. The subjects were a young, pretty blonde and a grinning, dimpled girl.

"That your family?" Jean asked, pointing to the photograph.

An enormous smile of pride split Jimmy's face. "Yeah, that's my wife, Kimmie, and our little girl, Angela. Our little Angel, we like to call her."

Jean smiled. "She's adorable. How old is she?"

"Three next month." Jimmy spared a glance in her direction. "You married?"

"Yeah."

"Kids?"

Jean hesitated. "My husband, Scott, has a son from a previous marriage. And we have a foster daughter."

"Good for you."

Jean glanced down at her lap. Though it seemed to be innocent enough conversation, she preferred to move topic from such personal inquiries. "So Angela's almost three, huh? That's still a pretty magical age."

Jimmy chuckled. "Yeah, so long as you make it past the terrible twos. I remember this time when Angie got her hands on one of Kimmie's lipsticks. . . ."

Jean sat back and smiled, immersed in Jimmy's tales of his toddler's misadventures.

**End Chapter 18**


	19. Chapter 19

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 19**

With still no sign of Cable or Emma emerging anytime soon from their latest session with Cerebro, Ororo wrapped her arms around herself and walked back toward the Ready Room. Glancing inside, she saw that Scott still sat at the table, head bowed, fingers pressed to both temples. With a sigh, she continued to pace the corridor.

Hearing the arrival of the elevator a few minutes later, she turned to see who had come to the sub-basement. The doors opened, and Jubilee emerged into the metal hallway, wearing a pair of roller blades and toting a tray with several steaming mugs.

"Hey, 'Roro," the girl said as she approached. "No word yet?"

"None, I am afraid."

"Care for a drink? I've got coffee an' tea."

"Tea sounds wonderful, thank you," Storm replied, selecting one of the mugs.

"Anyone else around?"

"Scott is in the Ready Room. I am not sure if he is awake or not."

"Only one way to find out," Jubilee replied, skating toward the room.

"Just try to be quiet," Ororo whispered after her.

"How can you expect me to sleep with the sound your heels make on a metal floor as you pace?" Scott asked, letting go of his head and offering Ororo a look of mock disdain.

"Well, it sure beats sitting here in the dark," Jubilee replied, setting the tray down on the table. "Care for a hot cup of java, Cyke?" she asked, holding out a mug. "Black, one sugar-just the way you like it."

Cradling her own mug between her hands, Ororo took a cautious sip. She wondered why Jubilee was even bothering; for more than the past day, Scott had refused all offers of food or drink. The man seemed to prefer to be left well enough alone.

"Sure," Scott said, accepting the proffered mug. "Thanks, kiddo." He offered her a small smile before taking a sip.

Ororo arched an eyebrow as a small grin curled her mouth. Shall wonders never cease.

"'Roro said there's been no word," Jubilee said softly, resting her hip against the table beside Scott.

"Yeah. They've been in there for hours. It's not looking good." Placing his hands around the mug that sat on the table before him, he let out a deep breath. "Not good at all," he muttered, bowing his head.

Frowning, Jubilee looked toward Ororo, who looked equally disheartened. She hesitated, and Ororo could sense the girl's unease.

But then an abrupt change came over her: her jaw set determinately, even as her shoulders squared. She skated behind Scott's chair and leaned forward. "It's gonna be okay, Scott," she whispered as she wrapped her arms over his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his temple. "We're gonna find her. I just know it. You've just gotta have a little faith, is all."

Ororo watched as Scott lifted a trembling hand, clasping Jubilee's forearm, even as he leaned back into her embrace. He seemed to visibly relax as his foster daughter tightened her hold. Ororo offered a silent prayer then, giving thanks for the modicum of comfort the girl was able to offer their distraught friend.

Suddenly there came a hissing sound from behind her. Turning, Ororo saw the doors to the Cerebro chamber slide open a moment before first Emma, and then Nathan, emerged. Jubilee skated up beside her as Scott got to his feet, and the trio watched as the two psi's entered the Ready Room, drenched in perspiration and looking absolutely exhausted.

This time, no one had the nerve to ask the question to which the answer was painfully obvious.

"Is that caffeine I smell?" Emma asked, approaching the table and draping her coat carefully on the back of a chair.

"Coffee or tea-pick your poison," Jubilee muttered.

Emma selected a mug of the latter, and sat down wearily, crossing her legs before taking a sip.

"I'm sorry, Scott," Cable whispered, once again unable to look his father in the face.

"Surely you've found some sign of her?" Scott asked. "At the very least, a psychic imprint from the accident scene?"

"There's nothing," Nathan said. "No sign of her on the astral plane or the physical one. It's almost as if she's vanished off the face of the earth."

Scott blanched. If that were the case, best case scenario meant that Jean had been transported to another dimension or another planet. Worst case scenario. . . . He refused to even consider worst case scenario; he was far from ready to give up on her yet.

Swallowing, Scott looked up at Cable. "But surely with Emma's powers added to your own-"

"Face facts, Summers-this entire endeavor was a waste of my time," Emma remarked.

"Waste of time!" Scott's face quickly regained its color as dread was replaced with rage. "My wife and unborn child have been kidnapped by one of our greatest enemies, and all you can think about is your precious time, you coldhearted bitch!" Fists raised in indignation, Scott made a rush for Emma.

Cable quickly intercepted him, and held him back. "Easy, Scott."

Emma, meanwhile, did not even bat an eyelash. She continued to sip her tea as she regarded Scott with a pitiful stare. "Kidnapping is merely supposition on your part," she pointed out. "For all we know, Jean does not want to be found."

"What!" Scott stared at her, dumbfounded. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"What it means, Scott, is that a telepath as powerful as Phoenix could easily hide her presence from us."

"But for what purpose?" Ororo asked.

"Well, it was not all that many months ago that Scott retreated to the school in Massachusetts because of marital strife. Who's to say that Jean is not doing the same thing now?"

"What gives you the right to even insinuate-!" Scott tried to push forward, but Nathan strengthened his restraint.

"What's wrong, Scott-did I strike a chord?" Emma asked with a smirk, lowering her lids as she took a drag of tea.

Without warning, the mug exploded in her face in a burst of colorful light, splashing tea everywhere. Screaming in outrage and pain as the scalding liquid hit her skin, Emma jumped to her feet, wiping at her face. A moment later, she glowered at Jubilee, obviously the perpetrator. "How dare you-!"

"No, Emma, how dare you!" Jubilee spat, skating closer to her teacher. "How dare you even suggest that Jean's disappearance is voluntary? Jean would never take off like this, faking her own death in the process, and hurting those who care most about her. That's your style, not hers." Jubilee clenched her fists at her sides, fighting to keep them lowered. "You're just jealous, is all."

Emma laughed. "For what earthly reason would I be jealous of Jean?" she asked, using a handkerchief to dry her face and pat at her neck, shoulders, and bosom.

"You begrudge Jean the happiness she's found. The love of her friends. The family she's made. The respect she gets that's due not to fear but genuine admiration for her accomplishments, her heart, her compassion. Jean has everything important in life that you can only dream of."

"Don't be ridiculous. . . ."

"Oh, I think I'm perfectly lucid, Emma. You try to force us to respect and admire you for owning your own company, for running the school with an iron hand, for instilling fear in the heart of your enemies-for having accomplished these things entirely on your own. But what good are they if they leave you isolated and alone? I'd much rather remain an average Josephine if it means having friends and family who love and care about me-" she looked at Scott and smiled- "who would move heaven and earth to help me when I'm in need. Like we all are for Jean. So, if you don't mind, kindly shut up and stop dissin' my moms."

Emma paused in her cleaning, glared first at Jubilee, then at Scott. Clearing her throat, she reached for her coat and slipped it on, tugging it into place as though trying to regain the dignity she had just lost. "You're obviously distraught with worry," she told the young woman. "As such, I will forgive you for addressing me with such rancor. I am going to go to my room to shower and change if you decide you have further need for my assistance. Good day." She turned on her stiletto heel and strode out of the room, chin high, never looking back.

"Oath!" Cable muttered, releasing his hold on Scott. He regarded Jubilee in amazement. "Never thought you had it in you, squirt."

"Well, Wolvie didn't dub me 'Firecracker' just coz of my powers, Bro," she replied with a wink. She then turned her attention to the other Summers. "I'm, uh, sorry about that, Scott. I know I was sorta out of line. . . ."

Scott shook his head. "Well, maybe just this once I'll overlook-"

Scott! Scott, can you hear me?

Without warning, the familiar voice was projecting into his head. "Jean?" He froze, hand flying to his temple almost unconsciously, even as he made eye contact with Nathan.

Nodding in comprehension, Cable mindlinked with his father.

Jean, is that you? Scott thought.

Yes.

Oh, thank God. Are you okay? What about the baby? Where are you? What's hap-

We're fine, Scott. I can't maintain the link, or they'll trace it and pinpoint my location. Love you.

And just as quickly as the telepathic contact had been established, it was severed. But not before a mental image was imprinted on his mind-and that of Cable.

Jean? Sweetheart, can you hear me? Jean? Jean! When there came no reply, she shook his head in frustration. "Damn it!"

"Scott?" Jubilee asked. "What happened? You just went totally catatonic on us."

"Jean just contacted me."

"Is she okay?" Jubilee questioned, approaching him. "What about-?"

"She said she and the baby were okay," he replied with a faint smile, taking her outstretched hand in his. "Nate, were you able to pick up on any of that?"

"Yeah, I heard it, Scott. Did you get that picture she sent us?"

The hint of a smile curled the corners of Scott's mouth. "Looked like the counter in a restaurant."

"A diner, I'd guess," Nathan agreed, his excitement growing. "You see the newspaper?"

Scott nodded. "The Daily Herald, Omaha's Hometown Newspaper," he recited from memory.

"She's in Omaha?" Jubilee questioned. "That ain't New York City, but it's still a big area to search. Don't suppose she gave you the name of the diner?"

Both Scott and Nathan shook their heads simultaneously.

"I got the impression Jean didn't even know exactly where she was," Cable said, "or else I'm sure she would have projected the exact coordinates."

"Is there any way to trace it?" Scott asked. "Jean said she couldn't keep our link open for fear of someone learning her location," he explained to Jubilee and Ororo.

"Well at least we have a much more localized search radius. I think that if we get close enough, I can pick up her thought pattern. Or track her unique mutant signature with Cerebro's aid."

"There is a portable Cerebro on the Blackbird," Ororo pointed out.

"What are we waiting for?" Scott asked, already heading for the door. "Let's do it."

**End Chapter 19**


	20. Chapter 20

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 20**

"Whoa! Where's the fire?" Bobby asked, watching Jubilee blade past him down the sub-basement corridor. From the streak of red he saw, she looked to be in her Generation X uniform.

She made a turn in mid-motion in order to face him. "Gotta get to the hanger bay pronto!"

"Why?" Bobby asked, jogging down the hallway to catch up to her. "Have they gotten a lead?"

"Yeah. They know where Jean is." And with that, she spun around and started to skate away.

"What! Where?" But Jubilee was already out of earshot. "Goddammit!" Bobby was about to sprint after her, but thought better of it as his current increase in respiratory rate had already sent an unpleasant twinge shooting across his ribcage. "To hell with it!" He used an ice-slide to transport himself to the hangar bay-entering only a few seconds after Jubilee.

Storm and the Beast were already in the process of refueling the plane. Jubilee was talking to Wolverine, who was pulling his mask into place. Cable was checking the settings on one of his super-sized guns as Cyclops said something to him, eliciting a grim nod. Everyone was in uniform and obviously ready for imminent departure.

"Where is she?" Iceman asked as he dismounted his ice-slide beside the Summers men.

"Omaha," Scott replied.

"Omaha?" Bobby repeated incredulously. "What the hell is she doing in Omaha?"

"The orphanage I grew up in was in Nebraska," Scott explained. "That's where Sinister first took an interest in me. Not too big a leap to consider he still has a base of operations somewhere in the vicinity."

"How'd you find her? Did Emma-?"

Cable snorted. "That arrogant Ice Queen was more trouble than she was worth."

"Tell me about it," Bobby muttered. "Then how-?"

"Jean contacted me," Scott explained. "She made brief telepathic contact."

"So she's okay?"

Scott nodded. "For the moment, anyway. She's afraid to use her powers, afraid someone will be able to track her. My guess is that she managed to escape Sinister and is now on the run from his cronies."

"So she told you she was in Omaha?"

Scott shook his head. "Not in so many words. She projected an image of a newspaper that told us her location."

Bobby grinned. "That's our Jeanie."

Scott returned the smile, albeit very briefly. It was the most hopeful Bobby had seen him in days.

"Have you heard from her since?" Bobby questioned.

"No." Turning around, Cyclops glanced up at the Blackbird. "Where are we at, Hank?" he shouted up to him.

"Storm and I have nearly completed the refueling process!" Hank bellowed back. "We will be ready for startup in approximately five minutes!"

Cyclops gave Hank and Ororo a thumbs-up. "We board in three minutes, people!" he shouted to the room's occupants. "And we take-off in six!"

"Count me in," Bobby told him.

"I was under the impression you were on the disabled list, Drake," Cable said as he holstered his enormous weapon.

"He is," Scott replied. "Bobby, it was Hank's medical ruling that you be placed on inactive duty."

"C'mon, Scotty, you can use my help. We're talking Sinister here-with either the Nasty Boys or Marauders on the job. You can use all the people you can get."

"Kid's got a point," Cable pointed out.

"Bobby, your injuries are nothing to laugh at. You need to rest and not exert yourself. Don't push me, or I'll order you grounded."

"Dammit, Scott, don't do this. Please. I want-I need-to help get Jeanie back. Even if you just make me Com Man, coordinating search parties from the plane. I just-I've gotta go with you, do whatever I can."

Scott considered. All of his experience as field leader was telling him that bringing Bobby along was a liability. But he could tell how strongly Drake felt about being included. And frankly, he did not have the time or the energy to argue with him any further.

"All right," Cyclops conceded. "But you're to stay with the plane. No heroics. Am I understood?"

"Yessir, Mr. Cyclops, Sir!" Bobby replied with an enthusiastic salute before heading to board the jet.

Scott looked up at his son, who was smirking. "What the hell are you smiling at?" he snapped.

"Nothing," Cable replied, though he did not stop grinning right away. "C'mon, Scott, let's go bring Jean home."

Jean sat in a chair at the Omaha Bus Station dosing. Each time she started to fall asleep, she would soon jerk herself awake. She just could not allow herself to let her guard down fully. She expected to see Arclight or Scalphunter or any one of Sinister's Marauders coming for her at any time. As such, she could not allow herself to sleep, to become that vulnerable. And so, ever since Jimmy had dropped her off about an hour ago, she had been resting-albeit fitfully.

She had soon discovered that her remaining cash would not get her even half-way to New York. She could have continued on at least part of the journey, but for some reason she felt safer in a bus station than traveling on a bus itself. She would have a better means of defending herself, of escape, and less threat of innocents getting caught in the crossfire.

She had considered calling home on a payphone, but once again, paranoia of Sinister's spying abilities won out. Instead, she found herself hoping and praying that Cable and Scott had been able to get a fix on her location from her previous contact, and that the cavalry was on the way. She had faith in them; surely Scott would consider the idea, and she had taught Nathan as much over the years. God willing, in a few short hours, she would be asleep in her own bed.

She was just drifting off to sleep again when she felt a familiar presence enter her mind. Writing it off as a dream, she paid it no heed, instead trying to force herself to resist sleep. As she jerked awake for the umpteenth time, she realized that the presence was still there.

Jean?

Nate?

Yeah, it's me.

What are you doing? If they pick this up on their sensors-

I've got that covered. I've initiated the contact, and am maintaining it alone; our conversation is not relying at all on your powers.

That's assuming it's my power signature they're scanning for, and not mutant energy in general.

That gave him pause. Well, I don't see what choice we have if we're going to pinpoint your location.

I'm at the Omaha Greyhound Station.

There was an extended pause. Or I could've just asked you.

She gave a mental chuckle.

Who are 'they', Jean? Who's after you?

Marauders. I've only seen Arclight and Scalphunter thus far, but I've no doubt the others are searching for me as well.

So Sinister is behind this.

Yes. The bastard wants to get his hands on my baby.

Are you both okay? Did he hurt you?

No, we're fine, Nate, all things considered. See for yourself.

He hesitated. But at Jean's insistence, he performed a more thorough scan, and touched his mind to that of his unborn sibling. It was a long time before he could find the words to form a coherent thought. He finally settled on Wow.

Pretty neat, huh?

I'll say. I've never felt anything like that before. Something so . . . innocent. I-what? Hold on a sec, Jean.

She waited patiently for him to resume the telepathic conversation.

Sorry about that. Scott just asked me to send you his love.

She smiled. He flying?

Of course. He doesn't trust anyone else to get us to you as quickly as possible.

Can I 'talk' to him?

There was another pause before Cable continued his communication. He doesn't think it's a good idea, and frankly I have to agree with him. He's worried that his presence in your mind might inadvertently trigger some aspect of your rapport, and thereby alert them to your location. Instead, he asked me to-what? No, Scott, I'm not gonna. . . . C'mon now. . . . I won't. . . . Oh, all right.

Jean smiled as she imagined the verbal conversation that was likely occurring between father and son.

Cable sighed in her head. I've just been informed that I'm to give you and the baby a psychic hug and kiss. Hold on, here goes. . . .

Jean was suddenly suffused with a feeling of inner calm. She felt all warm and toasty inside. There was nothing quite like a hug from one you loved-even if it was only a virtual one.

Thanks, Nate. Can you tell Scott-

No more playing telephone. You two can exchange endearments to one another in person in just a little while. Our ETA is-

He felt the anxiety fill her mind. Oh God.

Jean, what is it? What's-

I've spotted him. Scalphunter's here.

Cable could sense that her apprehension was quickly turning to panic.

What's he doing?

Scanning the crowd. I think he has that tracking device with him. I don't think he's spotted me yet.

Good. Listen to me, Jean. I want you to get up-slowly, so as to not draw attention to yourself.

Nate, if he's here, the others probably are too.

Jean, you've got to stay calm. You need to keep a level head. You with me?

He could sense her take a deep, steadying breath. Yes. I'm up, heading toward the restrooms.

That's good. Keep an eye on him. But don't go into the bathroom-they could corner you there, and no one would be the wiser.

How about the ticket counter? There's always a long line there.

Just make sure you give yourself an out-an exit route if you have to take immediate action.

How far away are you?

There was a pause. Scott says we'll be there in just over twenty minutes. Think you can evade him that long?

Let's hope so.

Jean, if you have to, defend yourself. Once you've been spotted, the game is up-doesn't matter how much your powers register on their sensors if they know where you are.

He could feel her determination grow. They won't take me-not again. I'm not going back to Sinister.

Just stay sharp, okay? I'm going to end this conversation, to keep me from distracting you.

Nate, don't go. He could feel a spike of fear. Don't leave me alone.

I'll maintain mental contact. You won't be alone, Jean. I promise.

He could sense her smile, feel her bolster of resolve. See you soon.

She no longer heard his voice in her head, but there was a comforting presence in the back of her mind. With a sigh, Jean moved up on the ticket line, all-the-while scanning the passers-by.

Abruptly, she was bumped by someone behind her. Turning, she saw a young woman bundled in a ratty olive green army-style jacket, a baseball cap covering her head. Her hands were shoved deep into her coat pockets, and she shivered, as if from cold.

"Pardon me," the woman muttered.

"That's okay," Jean replied, continuing her search over the woman's shoulder.

"You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"

Jean instinctively raised her arm to look at her wrist, but quickly realized she was not wearing a watch. "Sorry, no."

The woman looked from Jean's wrist to her face. "You feeling okay, ma'am?"

Jean returned the glance. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"You look a little pasty, is all. Look like you might feel sick. Nauseous. Or dizzy, maybe."

Now that she mentioned it, Jean did feel a little queasy. For a moment she wondered if the morning sickness was acting up again. Her knees felt weak, and the room did look a bit brighter. She broke out into a cold sweat, and worried she was going to have to make a mad dash for the bathroom.

"Do you need to sit down?" the girl asked, placing a steadying hand on Jean's arm.

Gulping, Jean nodded her head, even as she tried taking a small step forward. She faltered.

"Easy does it," the woman said, helping to support her. "Take a deep breath."

Jean did as she suggested, desperately fighting the queasiness. She spared a quick glance down at the woman's face-and caught what she could have sworn was a hint of a grin. Her brow furrowed as she studied the stranger's features more closely. Pale skin, ash blonde hair. Recognition hit her then, almost as strong as the sensation of-

Vertigo.

"Let go of me," Jean gasped between shaky breaths.

"If I do, you're gonna fall down."

"I said-take your hands off me!" Jean shouted, pulling back from the woman's grasp. She nearly fell to the ground in the process. As it was, she staggered backwards, walking into one of the other people in line.

"Hey, watch it!" the man snapped.

"C'mon, Jean, let me help you before you pass out." The woman approached her, arms extended, palms open beseechingly.

Jean's eyes widened and then a small smile curled her lips. "Sloppy sloppy," she said, even as she swallowed back the taste of bile in the back of her throat. "Your boss will be disappointed. I never told you my name-Vertigo."

As shock crossed the young Marauder's face, Jean raised her own hand and focused past the dizziness filling her mind. The telekinetic shove pushed Vertigo right off the ground, sending her flying above people's heads and across the room, slamming her into a bank of lockers. She crashed to the floor and did not get up.

As soon as her opponent lost consciousness, the feeling of wooziness was gone. Jean straightened, using her coat sleeve to wipe the perspiration from her brow. Once again, she scanned her surroundings.

All bets are off, Nate, she sent to her stepson. I've been spotted, and I need to keep moving. She got out of line and fell in step behind a group of teens crossing the station.

I'm with you, Jean. Scott says about ten minutes. He's flooring it, so to speak.

I'm heading for the food court. There should be lots of people-

As Jean approached the seating area, she felt a strong breeze behind her. The wind was picking up, much as one would expect from an impending storm. That is, if one were outside.

Food wrappers, napkins, and plastic silverware began to slide across tabletops. Diners had to hold onto hats and magazines.

Hair whipping around her face, Jean stopped and turned, looking for the source of the mini-hurricane. She found him about twenty feet away, his long, narrow face and straggly white hair the only visible part above the small tornado-like effect his body generated. Planting her feet wide apart, Jean's hands curled into fists at her sides as she erected a telekinetic shield around herself.

He grinned maliciously when he saw her preparing herself. "We can make this as easy or hard as you want, love," he called to her. "Up to you."

She shook her head knowingly. "You won't take a chance on hurting me, Riptide. Sinister will have ordered you to deliver his prize undamaged."

"Well, yeah, killin' ya is out. So's beatin' ya to a bloody pulp. Don't mean we can't have us a little fun in the process."

He wouldn't dare-would he? No, Sinister would not stand for it. Especially given her recent medical history, he would not risk it. She had to call his bluff.

Riptide laughed. "You ain't the only one around who can bleed, ya know." And without any further warning, he tossed a handful of metal stars and spikes, the weapons projected with near-bullet speed toward the unsuspecting crowd.

Jean's reaction was instinctual, honed from countless hours of training and battle since she was a teenager. She reached out with her mind, extending the shield to cover the handful of people interspersed throughout the tables. The projectiles bounced off her psionic buffer, ineffective. Riptide's arsenal, however, was rather extensive, and he kept the weapons coming. Because of the large area being covered, the telekinetic barrier was by necessity thin; it took only a few dozen strikes before Jean felt the strain.

Gritting her teeth, she realized she was going to have to go straight to the source to put an end to the barrage. Concentrating, Jean encased Riptide in a telekinetic bubble. It took him a moment to realize he was trapped; by then, he had already released another round of weapons, which immediately began to ricochet within his invisible prison. One sliced across his cheek and another snipped off a lock of hair before he managed to power-down. By then, though, panicked members of the crowd were better able to make their escape.

The effort also left Jean sufficiently distracted so that she barely registered a person behind her touch her hand.

Jean screamed in agony, grabbing onto her head as she fell to her knees, unable to prevent an abrupt-and quite uncontrollable-flare of her mutant abilities. If Riptide's power had created panic, Jean's sudden onslaught escalated the crowd's fright tenfold. Tables and chairs rose into the air, striking people indiscriminately as they flew across the food court. People were shoved backwards, into walls or counters of refreshment stands.

Around her, adults and children alike screamed in terror. Unable to control her telekinesis, Jean could do nothing to stop the chaos. As it was, her mind was being bombarded with the thoughts of the hundreds of people in the bus station. For all her alleged skill as one of the most powerful and well-trained mutant telepaths, she could not block any of them. It was excruciating beyond any pain she had ever known. Mercifully, she quickly blacked out, her body slumping to the floor just as all the levitated objects likewise crashed downward.

Grinning triumphantly, the unassuming Asian man who has managed to sneak up behind Jean stepped over pieces of rubble to approach her fallen form. He lightly toed her with his boot, and she shifted onto her back, still unconscious.

"Good work, Scrambler," a tall, muscular woman said as she approached. She reached down and hefted Jean over her shoulder as though she weighed little more than a sack of potatoes.

"Easy does it, Arclight," Scrambler chided. "You heard the boss: Handle with Care."

"Sheesh. She's got a bun in the oven, not nitroglycerin." Rolling her eyes, the tall brunette woman nonetheless shifted her load so that she was carrying Jean cradled in her arms. "Happy?"

"Peachy keen. Just followin' orders, is all. C'mon, let's grab Riptide an' blow this joint before the cops show up."

With a bark of pain, Cable was thrown across the width of the fuselage. He crashed against the wall, leaving a dent, and tumbled to the floor. For a moment the psychic backlash sent his own powers haywire, and the metal composing his left arm and chest began to lose its shape, undulating into the air like silvery serpents.

He heard Scott yell his name, as well as countless other shouting voices. Breaking the mindlink with Jean, Cable was once again able to regain control of his own mutant abilities. Concentrating, he used his telekinesis to reshape the techno-organic tendrils, re-forming his arm. With a sigh, he looked up to see the concerned faces of Storm, Drake, and Jubilee standing over him.

"What happened?" Bobby questioned.

"Nathan, are you all right?" Ororo asked, bending down beside him.

"Psychic backlash," he muttered, allowing Storm and Drake to help him to his feet. "Someone attacked Jean, muddled her powers. I got a small piece of it through our mindlink."

"That the reason for the T2 impersonation, Big Guy?" Jubilee asked, her face pale and drawn despite the levity of her tone.

Cable shook his head as though to clear it. "I wasn't the primary target-just happened to be linked to the wrong mind at the wrong time."

"What about Jean?" Scott called from the pilot's seat. "Is she okay?"

Cable closed his eyes in concentration, but soon opened them again. "I've lost contact. She's probably unconscious."

For a moment, silence rang heavy in the air of the plane.

"That means Sinister's flunkies've got 'er," Wolverine growled, extending his claws with a snikt.

"We shall arrive in less than ten minutes," the Beast called from the co-pilot's seat.

"That's ten minutes Jean may not have," Cyclops replied, his voice tight. He adjusted the throttle, pushing the Blackbird to near-maximum acceleration.

"Scott, even with a Shi'ar cloaking device, we can't maintain this kind of speed and remain undetected," Hank warned.

"I don't care," Scott replied, his fingers tightening on the yolk. "We need to make their escape as difficult as possible. Storm-"

"Cyclops?" she called, indicating she was prepared for his order.

"Drown 'em."

Nodding, Ororo's eyes began to cloud over even as they heard the boom of thunder a moment before a bolt of lightening flashed across the darkening sky visible through the windshield. "I shall retain a pocket of clear sky around us to facilitate our travel."

Hank was studying an electronic map on the console to his immediate right. "Looks like the nearest area large enough to land in is about a mile from the Bus Station."

"That's too far. Beast, when we approach, I want you to bring her low and hover."

"You got it, Fearless."

"Hank, take over." He did not even pay his friend a passing glance as he unfastened his seatbelt and headed to the back of the jet, where the others were gathered. "Storm, you drop Wolverine in the parking lot and head for the roof. Cable, you think you can handle lowering both of us?"

"Affirmative, Cyclops."

"Good. We'll search the station proper."

"What about us?" Jubilee asked, hiking a thumb toward Bobby.

Cyclops shook his head. "You're both to stay on board."

"What? No way, Scott! I'm here to help!" Jubilee protested.

"Out of the question. The Marauders are merciless killers. I'm not putting you at risk."

"How is that different from anyone else we face? C'mon, Cyke, you need all the help you can get! You said yourself that time is of the essence."

"She's right," Bobby chimed in, stepping forward.

"Don't start with me, Drake," Cyclops growled. "We already discussed this."

"Yeah, Scotty, I know we did. But the fact is, you need me. You're already out one by leaving Hank in the plane. Two more people means we can cover an even larger search area. Besides, I can generate an ice-slide to get us all down there. That way, Storm and Cable can conserve their strength for the fight."

"All right," Cyclops conceded. "Iceman, you take point. Jubilee, you're with me, with Cable following, and Wolverine taking up the rear. Logan, you still check out the parking lot. Storm, you'll touch down on the roof under your own power. Cable will keep us all linked telepathically. Anyone spots Jean, give a mental shout to the rest. You encounter a Marauder, take 'em down, fast and hard. No dilly-dallying. Jean's depending on us."

"ETA two minutes," Hank called from the cockpit.

"You heard the man, people. Let's get into position."

**End Chapter 20**


	21. Chapter 21

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Chapter 21**

As the others traveled to the ground via an ice-slide, Storm used a self-generated wind to alight on the rooftop of the bus station. Around her, torrents of rain and hail pelted down on ground, vehicles, and people alike. She summoned a thick fog as well, creating as many hazardous weather conditions as she could manage to slow the Marauders' escape.

Cape and long white hair billowing around her slender form, Storm walked toward the edge of the roof. She could barely make out the form of Wolverine, jumping off of the ice-slide onto the top of a parked bus. She was just about to scan the remainder of the parking lot when a clap of thunder boomed. The barely-masked ch-chink of a gun being primed alerted her to the presence of someone behind her; the disruption to the air currents generated by the action confirmed it.

Just as the gun discharged, Storm leapt off the roof, commanding the wind currents to raise her high into the air and keep her aloft. The beam from the energy weapon flew past her feet, never making contact.

She gazed down at the opposite end of the rooftop, saw Scalphunter raising his gun to target her once more. He had shed the trench coat, and the cybernetic parts that composed the majority of his body glistened as the rain poured down.

Storm easily evaded the next salvo from the plasma rifle by dodging left, right, then down.

"Hold still, Weather Witch, an' let me put you out of your misery already!" he shouted, his voice largely swallowed by the roar of the wind. From the glint in his eyes, the malevolent grin curling his lips, he evidently had murder in his heart.

"Better get back inside before you rust!" Storm called back, sending a barrage of golf ball-sized hail to pelt him mercilessly.

He fell to his knees, seemingly disoriented. But then he suddenly reached behind him, pulling a small pistol from a shoulder holster. In one fluid motion, he had fired half a dozen rounds at her.

She barely reacted in time. As it was, one bullet grazed her left shoulder. The shock of the impact sent her spiraling downward.

Storm quickly managed to stop her descent. Ignoring the sharp pain of her wound, she commanded the wind to right her body. Gazing upward, she could see Scalphunter peering over the edge of the roof, a large grin plastered across his face.

Gritting her teeth, Storm leaned forward and down, out of his visibility range, and flew quickly to the other side of the building. As her anger grew, thunder rumbled, and the wind thrashed around the Marauder. She rose into the sky from behind the other side of the roof, her eyes having gone white, her brow furrowed in fury.

Scalphunter spun around, guns at the ready.

"Funny thing about metal," she said, raising a hand toward her opponent. "It conducts electricity." As if called from the very heavens itself, a bolt of lightning appeared mere yards in front of her, striking Scalphunter square in the chest.

Current coursed through his mechanical parts, frying circuits, shorting out the servo-motors that allowed movement. Pain coursed through his trembling body as his joints fused in their current positions. His eyes rolled backward, even as he fell down face-forward, weapons still clutched in rigid fingers, body smoking.

As they approached the main entrance to the bus station, Cyclops signaled to Jubilee. "This is our stop."

He jumped off of the ice-slide, and turned to help her dismount. There was no need; she used the momentum from sliding down a valley in the ice like a ski jump, propelling herself high enough into the air to do a somersault. She landed on her feet with the grace of a gymnast-which, he had to remind himself, she had been for most of her life. He gave her a curt nod, and she could not help but smile at what she recognized as his gesture of approval.

Cable, you and Iceman go in the back way. Jubilee and I'll take the front.

With a wave, the other men continued around the side of the building.

"Where to, Cyke?" Jubilee asked, following him up the front steps into the bus station.

"Jean last contacted Cable from the food court," he replied, coming up short in the entrance area. "We just have to figure out where-"

"My guess is that way," Jubilee said, pointing toward the corridor where dozens of people were running from, shouting in panic.

"Let's go!" Cyclops said, dodging people as he sprinted through the crowd, ignoring startled gasps and frightened screams. "Just keep an eye out for Marauders. They all may not have left yet."

"What do these goons look like?"

"Believe me, you can't miss 'em."

Jubilee came up short behind Cyclops, who had stopped to survey the damage in the food court. Moving slowly forward, she peered around his side.

"Jesus! It looks like World War III in here," she muttered, taking in the uprooted tables and chairs, the cracked walls, dented counters. "That, or the Danger Room after we're through with it."

She watched as Cyclops knelt down, pushing aside an upturned trash can. His gloved fingers lightly touched a small puddle.

"That ain't ketchup, is it?" Jubilee asked, approaching.

"No, it's blood. Still pretty fresh."

She hesitated, unable to voice the next obvious question: Whose?

Jubilee looked at Cyclops. For most people, his face was largely unreadable with his eyes hidden behind his visor. But during the months she had been staying with Jean and Scott, Jubilee began to learn how to interpret his expressions. She felt she had gotten to know him pretty well, a bond formed during some emotionally trying times for all of them. Seeing the clench of his jaw, she knew he was deeply upset; he was trying his damnedest not to appear frightened. She wondered absently if this was how he had felt that evening months ago when he returned to the house, looking for Jean and her, and had instead found a pool of blood in the kitchen, with a trail leading back to the master bedroom. She shuddered, recalling similar images from some of her own worst nightmares.

"I- I'm sure Jean got in some licks before they caught her," she suggested softly, placing a light hand on his shoulder.

He said nothing as he rose to his full height, grim determination filling his face. "We'll find out soon enough. Let's backtrack, and see-"

"Hey Scott," Jubilee interrupted, staring past him at something across the food court. "One of these guys wouldn't happen to be a short, beefy Native American-looking guy?"

"One of the Marauders is an Inuit named Harpoon," he replied, following her gaze. "I don't see him."

"They just ducked down that corridor," she said, pointing.

" 'They'?"

"He was carrying someone over his shoulder. Looked like a woman. Unconscious."

"Lead the way."

Together, they took off across the food court. They paused on either side of the dark passageway Jubilee had indicated. From the signs posted, it appeared to be some sort of private entrance for employees, though what the corridor accessed was unclear. Jubilee looked over to Cyclops, awaiting his orders. He gestured, and she nodded in understanding.

Time to shed some light on the situation, she thought, raising a hand to emit bright plasmoids for a torch-like effect. They caught sight of a shadow as their quarry rounded a corner.

"C'mon, he's getting away!" Jubilee shouted, giving chase. She was about to make a right at the bend when she heard Cyclops shout a warning. It sounded suspiciously like 'Duck!'

His command barely registered, but she obeyed, leaping low across the width of the corridor. As it was, a bolt of energy whizzed mere inches above her head, singeing her eyebrows. She tucked and rolled, slamming less-than-gracefully into the far wall.

"You okay?" Cyclops called in a loud whisper as his back hugged the wall on the opposite side of the hallway.

She nodded. "What the hell was that?"

"His power is to transform metal harpoons into energy."

"Guess I should have realized that from the name. Now what? You wanna blast 'em?"

"No. I don't want to take a chance on hitting Jean."

"Then I'll flash 'em. Worst that'll happen is she'll get blinded in the crossfire."

Slowly, he nodded. He did not see a better alternative. "Be careful."

"I will." Leaning her head back against the wall, she lowered her shades and took a deep, calming breath, steeling her nerve. A moment later, she launched herself forward and to the left. She paused in the center of the corridor, raised both arms in front of her, palms-outward, and let loose with a volley of colorful fireworks. "Eat plasma, dirtwad!" she spat, launching another salvo for good measure. She crouched low then, ready to leap to safety if fired upon.

But nothing happened. There was no retaliation. As the plasmoids dissipated, she could make out a lone form laying on the floor half-way down the passageway. It was too small to be Harpoon. "Jean. . . ?" she whispered.

She started to take a hesitant step forward, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"What happened?" Cyclops whispered.

"Dunno. Think I got him?"

"Too easy."

"Probably. But we've gotta go see if Jean's okay."

"Why would he leave her behind?" Cyclops wondered aloud as they slowly crept toward the prone form. It took all of his self-control not to run to her.

"Maybe I did hit him," Jubilee posited.

As they drew closer, she saw that the figure was clad in jeans and a worn army jacket. Her hair was tucked into a baseball cap, and her face turned away from them. Jubilee reached a trembling hand toward the woman's shoulder.

The silence was suddenly pierced by a sharp war cry. Before Jubilee even realized what was happening, someone leapt over the body and her head, colliding with Cyclops at waist level. Together, they tumbled backwards and out of view.

"Scott!" she shouted, getting to her feet. She could hear the sound of his optic blasts being fired, as well as a crackling she now came to associate with Harpoon's unique energy manifestation. She was about to follow them when a low moan caught her attention.

"Oh God . . . Jean, are you okay?" she asked, once again kneeling before the woman, who was now stirring. She reached to help her sit up.

Grasping onto Jubilee's arm for support, the woman brought herself to a sitting position. The cap, which was slung low, shadowed her face.

"Jean, it's Jubilee. Are you hurt?"

As the woman raised her head and Jubilee caught sight of the unfamiliar face, she gasped. A sense of déjà vu washed over her at the memory of being duped by Tessa a year earlier. It was quickly replaced by a feeling of vertigo stronger than any she had ever known. Her stomach lurched and her head spun, leaving her disoriented and nauseous. As she fell back helplessly, she did the only thing she could: she discharged handfuls of fireworks. She heard a yelp of pain and surprise as the woman released her hold on Jubilee. By the time the girl hit the ground, her head had sufficiently cleared so that she could focus on her opponent: the woman sat on the ground, hands covering her eyes.

Jubilee lifted herself onto her elbow, watching the woman carefully. "Where's Jean?"

The woman said nothing as she slowly lowered her hands, eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear her vision.

"Answer me, dammit!" Jubilee spat, trying to get up on wobbly legs. "What did you do with Jean!"

The woman sneered then, gesturing in the direction of Jubilee's voice.

Suddenly, the world began to spin, and Jubilee fell to her knees, unable to determine which end was up. She tried to release another round of plasmoids, but had no idea in which direction her enemy lay.

Her vision graying, Jubilee thought she heard a familiar Zark! followed almost immediately by a scream of pain and a loud Thunk!

Lifting her shades, she glanced across the corridor. The woman lay slumped against the far wall, a huge crack in the plaster above her head where she had evidently impacted.

A moment later, Cyclops was crouching beside her. He placed a hand on her back. "You okay?"

Slowly, she nodded, though the movement made her stomach reel. "I- I could'a taken her. . . ."

He smiled then at her bravado. "It's all about teamwork, kiddo."

"Harpoon. . . ?" she asked, glancing toward the T-junction.

"Is buried beneath a pile of drywall, plaster, and cement."

"Damn, Cyke, you don't crap around anymore, do you?" She glanced up at the female Marauder's prone form, which was still save for the shallow movement of her chest. "You musta hit that bitch square in the chest."

"I don't want Sinister or his flunkies hurting my family any more," he replied simply. "Can you stand?"

"Th-think so. . . ." She grasped his hand tightly as she shakily got to her feet.

"Easy does it," he said, placing a steadying hand on her waist.

Feeling lightheaded from the change in posture, she felt her knees buckle.

"Or maybe not," she murmured as he helped her sit back down again.

"Put your head between your knees," he instructed her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, even as she did as told.

"Don't be," he told her, gently rubbing her back. "That's what Vertigo's power does. No one's immune. Not me or you-not even Wolverine."

"You were right, Scott," she admitted softly, fighting back tears. "I shoulda stayed on the plane. I'm just slowin' you down."

"You're kidding, right? Jubilee, we never would have gotten close enough to take down Harpoon and Vertigo if you hadn't been here. We did this together-"

Cyclops, Wolverine spotted Jean, Cable's mental voice boomed in his head.

Where?

Parking lot. He may need backup.

On my way. Cyclops looked down at Jubilee. "Logan's tracking Jean in the parking lot."

"Go," she told him. "I'll be fine. Just go get Jean back."

Nodding, he gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before rising and sprinting down the corridor back the way they had come.

"I'll be right behind you," she muttered to herself. "Just as soon as I get my sea legs back. . . ."

After dropping Cyclops and Jubilee off at the main entrance, Iceman and Cable continued around the side of the bus station, riding the slide until they came to the rear entry. Cable dismounted, but rather than follow Iceman toward the doorway, headed in the opposite direction.

"Cable! Where are you going? Cyke wanted us to check out the station."

"Go ahead," he called back. "I'm heading for the parking lot."

"But I thought Wolverine-" It was no use, however; Cable had already disappeared from site. Bobby shook his head. For a Summers, he sure has a problem following orders. With a shrug, he continued on his original course into the bus station.

He had not gotten very far when he encountered a group of teenaged girls, shrieking loudly as they ran toward the exit. One was holding her arm, another limping, a third grasping her side-all bleeding from cuts beneath torn clothing.

What the hell?

"Run!" one girl shouted to people she passed.

"He's crazy!"

That sounds like a good place to start. Pointing toward his feet, he generated a new ice-slide to carry him in the direction from which the girls had been fleeing. He had traveled less than twenty feet when he noticed a strong wind blowing across the station. He paused, hovering in mid-air, searching for the source, even as he began to freeze the moisture in the air surrounding his form.

A mad cackling was the only warning before a dozen sharp metal objects flew through the air towards him. Luckily, he had been in the process of bulking up his ice-form with a thick layer of ice armor-complete with helmet and stalactite-like spikes jutting from shoulders, arms, back and torso-along with a hand-held shield two feet in diameter. The majority of projectiles struck his ice slide, with the balance embedding in the quickly-raised shield. While generating more ice with one hand to stabilize the slide, he quickly turned and gestured with the other in the direction the objects originated from, freezing them before they could hit another unsuspecting target.

Now, though, he knew exactly who he was looking for. He spotted the Marauder about thirty feet away, his tornado-like form hovering in front of a bank of windows. The villain looked rather frustrated. "You got some new tricks up your sleeve, eh, Frosty? Who do you think you are, Sir Ice-a-lot?"

"Some of us are like good wine, Riptide-we just get better with age," Bobby retorted, slowly approaching on an ice-slide. "You, on the other hand, haven't changed-same old tricks, same murderous ways. Oh, and you still talk too much."

"Pot callin' the kettle black, eh, boy? How about a game of catch?" He began to launch his metal stars one at a time, gradually increasing the frequency.

Iceman made quick work of the first few, freezing them before they even got near him. Soon, however, he had to move left, right, up, down to reach all of the projectiles. It was slightly more challenging, but not too impossible. "Geez, Rip, I haven't had this much fun since I played Ka-boom on the ole Atari as a kid!"

The Marauder's eyes narrowed. "Time for a new game, kid. It's called pin the spike on the crowd." With an evil grin, he dispatched another round of weapons in a one-hundred-eighty degree arc. The line of fire included several groups of innocent bystanders scattered throughout the bus station.

Iceman immediately sprung into action. On the far right was a bank of windows leading to the parking lot; he decided to let that go in hopes that people would steer clear of the shattering glass. To the far left was an elderly couple and a family with several small children. Iceman pointed toward them, erecting an ice-barrier that stood eight feet high to intercept the projectiles. He extended the shield toward him to protect those standing behind him. He was not fast enough, however, and several metallic barbs whizzed past him. He spun quickly, pointing toward each in turn, freezing them before they could strike. As the third and final ice-encrusted spike clattered at the feet of a little boy, he sighed in relief.

He turned back to Riptide, who looked suitably enraged. It was only then that he noticed the laceration on the Marauder's cheek, and the blood that was streaming from it.

"What happened, Rip-you cut yourself shaving?"

"Your little friend, Red, tried to stop me from having some fun with the crowd earlier," he replied, spinning closer. "Don't worry, though-Scrambler made her scream but good. Bitch had it coming, ya ask me," he added with a devilish wink.

Hearing the villain speak so callously about the pain inflicted on Jean-deliberately-made Bobby's blood boil. "Where is she?" he demanded.

"Ooo, hit a nerve, did I?"

"Answer me, dammit! Where did you take Jeanie?"

Riptide chuckled. "That's for me to know, and you not to find out," he taunted.

"Tell me, you son of a bitch! Tell me where she is, or so help me-!"

"Or what? Ya gonna give me frostbite? Hit me with a snowball? Don't waste yer breath, kid-we both know your kind don't have the balls to do any worse than that."

Never before had Bobby so wanted to lash out, to literally beat the life out of another human being. He wanted to make this man pay-for all the innocent people he had killed or maimed in his criminal career, for hurting Jean, for rubbing his face in it now. Surely the world would be a better place with one less murderer in it.

Eyes narrowing, he glared at Riptide, raising his hand, focusing his power.

"What're ya doin', Frosty, tryin' ta give me the evil eye? You some kind of telepath now?"

Iceman said nothing, clenching his fist, concentrating on the water molecules in the Marauder's body. Like every other person-human or mutant-seventy percent of Riptide's body was composed of that precious substance.

"Wh-what's happening?" His body's spinning decreased gradually, until he was no longer able to maintain the effect. His limbs felt heavy, leaden. He began to shiver. "C-cold. . . . wh-what . . . 'r . . . doin' . . . ta . . . me. . . ?"

Iceman had begun to freeze the water molecules in his opponent's body. He watched as Riptide struggled to use his mutant powers unsuccessfully. Then Bobby watched as his opponent's breathing became more labored. Riptide's skin became pale, then his lips turned blue as his body temperature dropped precipitously low. He started to gasp, eyes rolling back no doubt as his brain stopped receiving sufficient oxygen.

"P-puh-please. . . ." he begged, eyes rolling up into his head.

Staring at him, Bobby realized how easy it would be to push a little more, to stop Riptide's heart from beating entirely. At that moment, he began to give in to his rage, feeling it wash over him, nearly consuming all rational thought.

But then, somewhere deep inside, a piece of his conscience asserted itself, reminding him of a lesson recently learned: Actions have consequences-ones we have to live with for the rest of our lives. If he took this man's life, he would have to live with that knowledge forever. And as much as he wished it were otherwise at this particular moment in time, Riptide was right about one thing: X-Men do not kill.

Reluctantly, Iceman unclenched his fist, simultaneously releasing his hold on Riptide. The Marauder collapsed onto his side, gasping for air, taking the precious oxygen into his lungs, body shivering as it attempted to raise his core body temperature.

Bobby walked over to him, staring down at the prone form. "Today's your lucky day, Rip. A week ago, I would have let you die. Today, though, I decided to let you live. You have Jeanie to thank for that, actually." He gestured downward, forming ice-shackles around his opponent's wrists and ankles. "Now, though, you're gonna rot in prison. You do the crime, ya gotta pay the time." He added an ice gag for good measure.

"Iceman!"

At the sound of his codename, Bobby turned, saw Jubilee jogging toward him. She looked a little unsteady on her feet.

"Did I miss some fun?" she asked.

"Nah, just tying up some trash. How about you?"

"Cyke and I had a little run-in with Harpoon and Vertigo. They're down for the count."

"Hope you gave as good as you got," he said, taking in her pale complexion and sweat-soaked hair.

"I feel much better now that I yarfed."

"Geez, thanks for sharing," Bobby muttered as he reverted to human form. Now that the adrenaline rush was fading, he felt completely wiped. "So where's Cyke?"

"Cable gave a mental shout. Said Wolvie found Jean in the parking lot."

"What? When?"

"'Bout five minutes ago. Didn't you get the message too?"

"Nope. Seems ole Nathan doesn't think very highly of me. And to think I used to help change his dirty diapers. We gotta go see if they need help-" Bobby turned to leave, but the movement sent a sharp pain slicing across his chest, making him double over.

"Forget it, Drake. You can't even stand up straight, an' my stomach's still doin' loop-de-loops. Let's get back to the 'Bird before we both fall down."

"But-"

"We both did our part to help. It's up to the others now. That's what the X-Men are about, right? Teamwork."

He regarded her for a moment as he considered. Truth was, he had pushed himself too hard during his battle with Riptide. He doubted he could create another ice-slide, let along ride one to the parking lot. And the kid looked dead on her feet.

"All right," he conceded. "We can update Hank and get the prisoners secured."

"Need a hand?" Jubilee asked, slipping beneath one of Bobby's arms to help hold him up.

"Yeah, thanks," he replied, grateful for the extra support. "No yarfing on my shoes, though."

Wolverine was already on the move. With a running start, he leapt from one bus to another, the density of his adamantium-laced skeleton causing him to leave a sizable dent in the roof. He had barely come to a halt before he took to the air again, jumping to the adjacent vehicle. He repeated the motion three more times, until he came to end of the row of buses. By then, a thick fog had rolled in across the parking lot, and he could barely discern that two figures were on the move, one of them holding an unconscious form slumped over a shoulder. They were heading for the chain-link fence at the edge of the parking lot. He had to end this quick-before Jeanie got hurt, before they got reinforcements, or reached some sort of transport.

Protracting his claws, Wolverine sprung. He hit the ground hard, but immediately bounded forward, barely losing a beat. As he headed toward the pair of villains, he was able to identify them by scent. Marauders.

They came up short in front of the fence. It was about eight feet high, trimmed with barbed wire. There was not a gate in sight.

"Now what?" Scrambler was out of breath, anxious.

"Now ya give back what don't belong to you!"

The duo turned toward the gravelly shout.

"Wolverine!" Scrambler gasped, his eyes widening in horror.

"Forget it, shrimp!" the other Marauder shouted pompously. "Red's comin' with us. And there ain't nothin' you can do about it!"

Growling in rage, Wolverine crouched down, began to approach.

"Arclight!" her teammate spat. "He can tear us both in half!"

"You, maybe, but he'll never get that close," she told him as she passed Jean to him.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Grunting, he nearly stumbled under the weight of his new burden.

"He won't attack us-not if there's a chance of Red gettin' cut in the crossfire."

"Yeah, but there's no way I'm climbing this fence-not while toting this sack of potatoes."

"Let me make it simple, then." Grasping the fence linking near a pole, she pulled. The panel tugged away, creating a man-sized hole through which Scrambler could easily fit-even with his added load. "Get goin', then. I'll hold him off."

"See ya on the other side, Arc," he said, slipping through the break in the fence and sprinting toward the trees.

Wolverine chose that moment to attack. Arclight stepped in front of the hole in the fence. Just as Wolverine came at her, claws first, she dropped to the ground, belting him in the stomach. It sent him flying off course, toward the side of a bus. His body made a man-sized dent in the siding, and it took him a few seconds to get his bearings. Just as he got to his feet, he saw Arclight rushing toward him, ready to tackle him.

Without warning, a crimson beam cut through the rain, tagging the Marauder in the side. Grunting, she was propelled sideways, colliding with the side of the bus, disappearing as the metal and glass gave way beneath the force of her impact.

Wolverine looked up as Cyclops rounded the far side of the bus. "Where is she?"

From his tone, Logan knew he was not asking about their opponent. "Scrambler has her. He headed for the woods." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the fence.

Just then, Arclight emerged from the bus. Her coat was in tatters, and she shrugged it off, revealing her silver body armor. She looked quite pissed off.

"Get goin', Cyke."

"What about you-?"

"Go! I'll handle the Amazon."

With a curt nod of the head, Cyclops was off and running.

"You gonna cut me, Short Stuff?" Arclight taunted. "You've gotta catch me first."

Growling, Wolverine took up a fighting stance. The Marauder likewise raised her fists, bending down. They started to circle one another. Above them, thunder boomed.

"What's it gonna be, Canuck? C'mon, now, I've seen more action from a Hibachi chef!"

Lightning crashed just as Wolverine launched himself. Arclight dodged his assault easily, spinning on the balls of her feet to face him once again. Seeing him with his claws embedded in the side of a bus, she laughed. "Is that the best you can do, Pipsqueak?"

"Who said it was you I was aimin' for?"

She gazed at him in stupefaction just as the wind began to pick up. Literally.

In mere seconds, a veritable tornado had descended into the parking lot, with Arclight as its touch-down point. Before she could even scream in protest, she was caught up by the twister, and carried spinning into the air.

Wolverine, body buffeted by the gale, remained anchored to the bus by his claws. He watched as the Marauder was lifted over a hundred feet in the air. "Sayonara, witch!" he called as the tornado abruptly released her. She plummeted to the ground, and landed on top of a nearby bus with a resounding boom.

Just as quickly as the tornado had appeared, it was gone. With the massive winds dissipated, Wolverine was able to regain his footing. He had just finished cutting a large strip of metal from the side of the bus when he felt a much less powerful gust of wind.

"She out for the count?" he called up, over his shoulder.

"Yes," Storm replied, riding the air currents above the bus.

"Good work, 'Ro," he said, carrying the metal band over to the Marauder's prone form. He wrapped her in it, the metal cocoon serving as a makeshift restraining devise. "That should hold her for a while."

"Which way was Jean taken?" Storm asked as she alighted beside him.

Smelling blood, he looked up at her. He saw immediately the way she held her left arm immobile. He got to his feet and was quickly by her side, looking at her arm. Blood had been flowing from her shoulder, onto her forearm. Some was splattered onto her neck and cheek. "You're hurt."

"It is nothing," she replied. "We need to-"

"The slug still in you?" he asked, grabbing the end of her cape and using his claw to remove a strip of cloth.

"It is but a flesh wound. I will be fine, Logan. We need to help Jean." She took a step forward, and faltered.

"Easy does it," he said, his tone gentle, as he placed a steadying hand around her waist. He pressed the makeshift bandage against her shoulder, and she winced. "You need to get back to the plane, 'Ro. You've lost a lot of blood. That twister took a lot out of you, too. You can barely stay on your feet."

"But-"

"I'll go follow Cyke. You let McCoy patch you up," he told her as he placed her right hand on top of the bandage. "Keep applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Can you make it back by yourself?"

"Do not concern yourself with me. Just go."

"Don't worry, 'Roro. I ain't comin' back without Jeanie."

Pausing only long enough to see her nod as she met his eyes, Wolverine sprinted toward the fence, slipping through the tear, and disappeared into the forest.

Scrambler had barely made it a few yards past the fence when, winded, he had to stop. He looked down at Phoenix's unconscious form, considering. With a grunt, he hoisted her onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry and took off across a large grass field, heading for the trees.

The further he ran from the parking lot, the lighter the rain. By the time he had approached the edge of the woods, the ground looked dry as a bone.

Damned meddling Weather-Witch. Thinks she's so powerful. Can't even keep up a go- "Ooof!" The breath was literally knocked from his lungs as he collided face-first into a firm, thick, unmoving object.

Stumbling backwards, he barely managed to stay on his feet and not drop his load. He was cursing himself for somehow managing to run straight into a tree when he looked ahead-straight into the chest of a massive man.

"What the hell?" He could have sworn that the path had been clear ahead of him.

"All it took was a simple psychic suggestion to make you think that the path was clear, when actually you were heading in my direction," the man told him.

Scrambler shifted Jean's body so that he could hold it in place with one arm. He took a step closer, and quickly extended his free arm so that his fingers touched the bare flesh of the man's right arm. When nothing happened, he looked up in confusion.

"Oh, did I forget to mention that I'm also a telekinetic? Creating a tk-shield effectively blocks your powers, Scrambler. Now, what's it gonna be-the easy way or the hard way?" he asked, holding out his arms to take Jean from the Marauder.

"You've gotta be kiddin' me, right?" Scrambler said, backing away. "I give her to you, my boss kills me. I fight you, she might get hurt-which will make you and my boss angry."

"Sounds like a no-win situation, Scrambler," the man said, taking a step toward him.

"Hold it!" the villain shouted, moving a hand toward his captive. "You come one step closer, and I'll brain-fry her. Don't matter to the boss-she'll still serve her purpose. Hell, it'll probably make her easier to manage." He felt Jean begin to stir.

He saw the man's fists clench at his sides even as his left eye began to glow. It was only then that he realized that the man's left arm was composed of metal.

"Oh shit. You . . . you're Cable. You're Nathan Summers."

Cable grinned. "Give the man a prize. Sinister sure is growing 'em dumb lately."

"You were to be his perfect creation. Would have been, if not for Apocalypse. You became . . . tainted." His eyes lowered to Cable's techno-organic limb. "You were a failure."

"Oh, stop, please, before you make me cry," Cable said dryly, rolling his eyes.

"It will not happen again. Phoenix holds the key to-urgh!" There was a flash of telekinetically-enhanced movement, and Scrambler staggered. Wide-eyed and slack-mouthed, he tried to speak, but a thin trickle of blood ran out the corner of his mouth. A moment later, he crumpled to the ground, taking Jean with him.

As Cable moved toward them, he saw the metal handle of a knife protruding from Scrambler's back. From the angle, it looked to have been inserted between ribs and into his heart.

From where she lay, her legs tangled beneath her would-be kidnapper's still arms, Jean stared at the Marauder in disgust. "The only key I hold is to your demise!" she spat. "Stay away from me! Stay away from my family!"

Cable quickly pushed Scrambler aside to free Phoenix. "Jean?"

She looked up at him, and her face immediately softened. "Nate," she whispered.

He knelt down beside her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I . . . I think so. . . ." She shivered. "Good thing I still had that knife in my pocket from the diner."

"I'll say. Nice shot."

Just then there came the sound of someone running through the woods. Jean felt Nathan's arm wrap around her protectively, even as he pulled a large energy weapon from a holster on his back. A moment later, she felt his tension dissipate. "We're over here!" he called.

A familiar figure emerged from the trees. The moment he spotted them, an enormous grin split his face. "Jean!" came her husband's shout.

In mere heartbeats, he closed the distance between them. He dropped to his knees and she reached for him. He took her into his arms, holding her tightly.

She clung to him, burying her face in his neck. "Oh Scott," she cried, her shoulders shaking with relief. "Oh God, Scott." He could feel her trembling against him even as her hot tears soaked his skin.

"Shh," he soothed, stroking her head. "It's okay. I've got you. You're safe now. You're safe."

"I- I was afraid this nightmare was never going to end," she whispered, still shaking.

"It's over, love," he said, placing a soft kiss on her temple. "You don't have to worry any more. We won't let them hurt you."

He felt her nod. "As scared as I was, I never gave up hope." She pulled back to gaze into Scott's face, her eyes shining with love. "I knew you'd find me. I knew you'd both find me," she said, reaching to grasp Nathan's hand. He gave it a quick squeeze.

"You did most of the work," Cable told her. "We just followed the trail of breadcrumbs."

Jean made a derisive snort.

"Are you okay?" Scott asked, reaching to gently cup her cheek. "Did they hurt you?"

"I've got the mother of all headaches," she muttered, closing her eyes as she leaned into his touch. "A side-effect of Scrambler's powers. . . ." She gazed over at him. Cable had turned him over in his haste to free her. The Marauder's vacant eyes pointed heavenward.

"He's dead," Nathan pronounced.

"Where have I heard that one before?" Jean wondered aloud.

"Otherwise, you're sure you're okay?" Scott asked, tenderly brushing her wet hair off of her face. "What about the baby? Did Sinister-?"

"He didn't hurt us, Scott. As far as I can tell, the baby's fine." She took his hand and lay his palm on her belly.

She felt the feather-light brush of his lips just above her brow. Smiling through her tears, Jean rested her forehead against his, and took the opportunity to re-establish their psychic rapport. Scott offered her a mental caress of reassurance.

"God, I was so worried about you," he said aloud, taking her hands in his. He brought each to his mouth in turn, pressing his lips to her knuckles almost reverently.

Jean felt her heart swell from that simple gesture. Tears pooled in her eyes before spilling onto her cheeks. Seeing the look of concern on Scott's face, Jean quickly wrapped her arms around his neck in reassurance. "I'm just relieved it's finally over," she whispered, hugging him tightly.

"And I'm so glad you're all right," he murmured, enjoying the familiar feel of her embrace.

"I still want Hank to check me out, make sure everything's okay-especially after Scrambler. . . ." She shivered, stealing another glance in his direction. "Can we get out of here? I want to be as far away from this place as possible."

"Let's get you back to the Blackbird," Scott said, lifting Jean in his arms. "We'll get you out of those wet clothes, into something dry and warm." He looked toward his son. "Nathan. . . ?"

"I'll handle it," Nathan replied, inclining his head toward the body. "Don't worry about it. Just go take care of Jean."

"Thank you," Scott and Jean said at the same time.

Nathan smiled as he waved them off.

"I feel like I could sleep a week," Jean murmured, leaning her head against Scott's shoulder as he backtracked through the woods.

"Looks like I'm late for the party," Wolverine called as he emerged from the trees. He walked over to them and smiled. "Hey Red."

"Hi, Logan," she replied, reaching out to take his hand. "Thanks for your help."

"Anytime, Jeanie," he said, running his thumb across her fingers briefly. "Anytime." He looked up at Scott. "Where'd Cable get to?"

"He's back about a quarter of a mile, with Scrambler's body."

"Unconscious?"

"Dead," Jean said.

Logan's eyebrow rose. "Good. I'm gonna go see if Cable needs a hand. Go get some rest, Jeanie. When you're feelin' better, I can't wait to hear how you escaped." With a nod, he headed back the way they had come.

"That's a story I wouldn't mind hearing myself," Scott said as he continued walking.

He sensed her sudden alarm through their rapport. "Jean, what's wrong?"

"Oh God, Scott, I nearly forgot. Isabella! We have to go help Isabella!"

"Who's Isabella?"

"She worked for Dr. Gauche-for Sinister. But only because he forced her to. She had no idea who he really was. It was only because of her that I was able to get away. I promised her that we'd go back for her."

"Do you even know the location of where you were being held?"

"I have a general idea. Scott, please, we have to help her. Lord only knows what Sinister will do to her when he finds out-"

"Take it easy, Jean. We'll check it out-I promise. But right now, my first priority is making sure you and the baby are out of harm's way. Okay?"

"Okay."

Less than ten minutes later, they were approaching the Blackbird. Jubilee was waiting for them.

"Jean!" she cried, hurrying over. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, sweetie," Jean replied, reaching out to cup the girl's cheek. "I didn't realize you were here."

"Well, I thought Scott could use someone to watch his back."

Jean managed a weary laugh.

"C'mon," Jubilee beckoned. "I'll go grab some blankets." She scurried up the ramp ahead of them to get things ready.

Scott carried Jean inside the plane and brought her to one of the gurneys in the back.

"Jean!" Ororo had been sitting on the adjacent gurney while Hank placed her bandaged arm in a sling. As soon as he finished, she was on her feet.

Smiling, Jean gladly accepted Storm's warm embrace. "What happened to you?"

"A minor wound. But what about you? Are you well?"

"I'm fine, Ororo. Much better now that I'm going home." She looked up at Hank, who smiled down at her. "Hey, Blue."

"Jeanie," he replied, gracing her with an enormous smile. "No wounds that require immediate attention?"

"Nope," she said, shaking her head.

He sighed. "Good. Then I shall return to the cockpit posthaste." Clasping Scott on the shoulder, he took his leave.

"I shall go see if Henry requires any assistance," Ororo said. "I am glad you are home, safe and sound, my friend."

"Me, too, Ororo. Thank you."

"Let's ditch this coat," Scott told Jean, helping her remove the drenched garment, along with the cardigan.

"Nice threads," Jubilee remarked, catching sight of the waitress uniform. "Don't tell me the dude had you waiting tables."

"It's a long story," Jean replied, accepting the towel Jubilee offered to dry her hair and face.

"Which can wait until tomorrow," Scott said, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.

"Thanks, hon."

"Jubilee, would you mind asking Hank if he's had any word from Nate or Logan?"

"You got it, Cyke. I'll talk to you later, Jean."

"Okay. Thanks, sweetie." Once the girl was out of earshot, Jean looked at her husband. "You trying to get rid of everyone?"

"No, I just want you to get some rest. Hard to do that with everyone hovering around. How about you lie down, try to get some sleep?"

She smiled at him. "Will you stay with me?"

"Of course," he replied, bending to place a soft kiss on her lips. He then reached to remove the one remaining shoe she was wearing before helping her to lift her legs onto the gurney. He tucked the blanket around her. "How's your headache?" he asked, gently stroking her hair.

"Still there."

"Bad?"

"I've had worse."

"Let me go check with Hank, see if he has anything here that's safe for you to take. I'll be right back." He placed a kiss on her temple.

"Okay, thanks," she mumbled sleepily, closing her eyes as she nestled beneath the scratchy fabric. She almost immediately began to dose.

"Knock knock," came a chipper voice, pulling her back to consciousness. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. . . ."

At the sound of the voice, Jean's face drained of all color. Mouth trembling, she pushed herself up on an elbow as she craned her head to get a better look.

"Hey Jeanie. I know you're probably beat, so I won't stay long. I just wanted to. . . . Geez, did I say something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh my God." Sitting up, Jean brought a trembling hand to her mouth, even as tears brimmed and slid down her cheeks.

"Jeanie, are you okay? Should I go get Hank?"

"I- I don't believe it. . . ."

"Believe what?"

"B-Bobby. . . ?"

"Yeah, Jeanie, it's me. Who were you expecting-Frosty?"

His words only made her cry harder.

"What'd I say?"

"She . . . she told me . . ." Jean managed between the sobs. "It didn't occur to me . . . to doubt it. . . . Even now, I just assumed. . . ." She shook her head. "I thought you were dead."

"Last I checked, I was still alive and kicking."

She laughed through her tears, but could not seem to stop crying.

"Jeanie," Bobby whispered, walking closer. She reached for him tentatively, slowly touched his face with her fingertips. As she stroked his cheek, he winked at her.

She completely lost it then, her face crumbling, her body wracked with sobs.

Not knowing what else to do, Bobby wrapped her in his arms, held her close. "Shh," he soothed, rubbing her back. "It's okay, Jeanie. Don't cry. Please don't cry."

"I can't help it. Oh God, Bobby, I thought you were killed in the accident."

The impact of her words hit him then. "Jeanie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Oh God I'm so sorry."

She realized then that he was trembling. She pulled back, regarded him, saw the way his eyes shone. "Bobby, what on earth do you think you have to apologize for?"

"For this-for everything. I'm sorry about the accident. I'm sorry you got hurt. I'm sorry I couldn't stop them from taking you. I'm sorry you had to go through all this-escaping, fighting. If anything had happened to you-to either of you-then I would have died. Because I would never have been able to live with myself."

"Oh Bobby." Jean framed his face with her hands. Never before had she seen him look and sound so dejected. "None of this was your fault, Bobby," she said firmly, forcing him to meet her gaze. "None of it. This was Sinister's doing. If anyone is to blame, it's him. He's a master manipulator, and he's made a career out of making all our lives a living hell. This time, you and I were the lucky recipients of his latest machinations. But you know what?" She slid her hands down to his shoulders, which she gripped firmly. "We beat him. Just like we've done so many times before. And you know what else? Next time he tries to hurt us, we'll beat him again. Because we're stronger than him." She took one of his hands and cradled it between both of her palms. "Because we have what he'll never have: friendship. Loyalty. Love. So rather than sit here feeling sorry for yourself, I want you to channel that emotion. I want you to feel grateful for what you do have. I, for one, am so very thankful right now that you're standing here with me."

She watched as he stared at her, a smile quickly growing across his face. "You know something, Jeanie? You never cease to amaze me. You are one of the most incredible people I've ever known."

Lowering her head, she blushed.

"Only you could take me from feeling sorry for myself to the warm fuzzies in under a minute. I'm so happy that you're here to straighten me out," he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

"Hey, I don't do this for just anyone. You rate pretty high on my special person list."

"How high?"

She thought for a moment. "Single digits."

"You sure that's not just from seniority? I have known you about as long as, say, Scott. And I assume he's at the top of that list, what with that whole marriage thing and all."

"It has nothing to do with precedence. You've earned it all on your own."

"You mean I've merited a title other than class clown? Will wonders never cease. I gotta go call my mom."

She laughed. "I love you, Bobby Drake," she said, wrapping her arms around him.

"I love you too, Jeanie," he whispered, hugging her back.

"Sorry it took so long," came Scott's voice as he approached. "You know how Hank is once you get him start. . ." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of Jean and Bobby. "Er, sorry to interrupt."

Hearing him enter, Jean gave Bobby one final squeeze before ending the embrace. As Bobby pulled back, she could sense his pain, even as she saw the grimace that filled his face.

"Geez, Jeanie, you've got a grip like a steel vise," he muttered, bringing a hand to his torso.

"Oh God. I'm sorry, Bobby. Did I hurt you?"

"My ribs are still a little sore, is all. I think I'm gonna go sit down now," he said, slowly making his way back toward the seating area, still clutching at his chest. "Maybe swallow a bottle or two of Advil."

"You need help?" Scott offered.

"Nah." Bobby waved him off. "I think I can make it. I'm just gonna take baby steps. I'll talk to you guys later."

They both watched as he shuffled down the aisle toward the front of the plane.

Shaking his head, Scott looked at his wife. "You okay?" he asked, reaching to dry her cheeks.

Smiling, she nodded. "Yeah. I am now."

"Unfortunately, we don't have anything for your headache here. Hank suggested you just try to sleep." Scott retrieved a box of tissues. "We should be taking off in a few minutes."

"What about Nate and Logan?" Jean asked before she blew her nose.

"They're on their way back."

"So soon? I thought they had to secure the prisoners."

Scott did not reply as he adjusted the tousled blanket. "Why don't you lay back down, sweetheart?"

"Scott, what is it? What aren't you telling me?"

He hesitated. But ultimately he realized that telling her would be less stressful than trying to keep her in the dark-even if it was for her own protection. "There aren't going to be any prisoners."

"They got away? Why am I not surprised?" With a sigh, she lay down on the gurney. "But what about Scrambler's body?"

Scott shook his head. "Disappeared in a burst of light, according to Nate. They went back to check on the others, and none of the Marauders were where we left them," Scott explained as he covered Jean with the blanket. "The metal restraint Logan fashioned for Arclight-hell, even the ice shackles Bobby used to hold Riptide-were still there. But no one was in 'em. Doesn't matter. I really don't give a damn, so long as you're back, safe and sound," he told her, bending to kiss her cheek before sitting down at her bedside. Smiling, Jean closed her eyes.

"Scott?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you think they didn't just teleport me away with them?"

He let out a loud breath. "I don't know, sweetheart. Maybe whatever sort of teleportation device they use is keyed into each Marauder's specific genetic structure."

"Maybe Sinister didn't want to risk hurting the baby."

Scott reached for her hand, entwining their fingers. "Don't even think about it anymore, Jean. Just get some rest."

"'Kay."

Through their rapport, Jean could sense the tension that had been filling Scott's body slowly melt away. As she drifted off to sleep, she overheard his silent prayer of gratitude for the safe return of his wife and unborn child.

**End Chapter 21**


	22. Chapter 22

**A Friend in Need III: Crash and Burn **

**By Somogyi **

**Epilogue**

Jean felt Scott squeeze her hand encouragingly even as she felt his _lovesupportwonderjoyreassurance_ flooding through their rapport. She spared a glance toward where he sat beside the exam table on which she lay. He did not seem to notice her scrutiny as he gazed at the screen, enraptured. She smiled, enjoying the expression of awe on his face almost as much as the sight that was the focus of his potent emotions. His distraction came of no surprise. After all, it was not every day that you saw the first images of your unborn child. Still grinning, Jean briefly glanced downward, watching the way Hank's massive hand guided the ultrasound probe over her belly with a dexterity and gentleness that belied its blue-furred, clawed appearance.

A sudden movement on the screen caught her eye, and she quickly gave it her full attention.

"You two see that?" Hank asked, left hand making adjustments on the monitor as his right moved ever-so-slightly at the wrist, adjusting the field of view.

"Yeah," Scott said, even as Jean nodded.

"I would hazard to say reciprocal gesticulation is in order."

Puzzled, Scott looked at Jean, who appeared equally confused. "Come again?"

Hank rolled his eyes heavenward above his reading glasses, shaking his head as a teacher might at a remedial child. "Wave back to your child," he translated.

Jean laughed aloud. "That's the baby . . . waving?"

"Say cheese, bambino-you're on candid camera," Hank announced, pressing a button to capture the image on film. "I'm going to take some measurements of the fetus now," he said, "starting with the cranial circumference."

At first, Scott interrupted him after he recorded each number, questioning whether it was appropriate. Sensing Hank's frustration, Jean quickly spoke. "Scott, darling, let Hank take the measurements, or we'll never get done. You know as well as I do that he'll let us know if anything is out of the ordinary."

"You're right," Scott said, bringing her hand to his lips. "Sorry, Hank. I'm a little anxious."

"As is to be expected. Thus far, everything looks perfectly normal."

For the next ten minutes, Hank continued to scan, completing the measurements of the fetus, stopping now only to print various images. Each time he made a notation, Jean's hold on Scott's hand became tighter. When Hank then proceeded with an anatomic survey-everything from the head, brain, spine, chest, and heart to the abdominal organs, as well as the umbilical cord and extremities-Jean felt her heart rate increasing in anticipation. As Hank finished by noting the location of the placenta and estimating the amount of amniotic fluid, Jean let out a breath she had not even realized she had been holding.

He had no sooner replaced the probe in its holder when Jean bombarded him with questions. "Does everything look okay?" she asked. "Have you seen any indication that the baby was adversely affected by what they did to me?"

Hank chuckled as he caught Scott's small grin. "Jean, everything looks great. Judging by this ultrasound, the baby is at the appropriate size and stage of development for our estimated stage of gestation of fifteen weeks."

"And what about the rest of your tests?" Scott asked. "What about Jean herself?"

"The tox screen was negative. I found no evidence of Jean having received any foreign substances."

"Nothing detectable, anyway," Jean pointed out.

"Jean, other than a mild level of dehydration-which I suspect was due to your time on the run and your having slept for most of the past twenty-four hours-your PE was unremarkable. You're in good health. Your baby appears perfectly healthy. I suggest you both put this entire incident behind you. Focus on the positive. And if you must worry, then do so regarding more mundane matters: whose nose will the baby have, whose hair, will it be a boy or a girl, or-if you must, heaven forbid-will the child's powers be of a more psychic or physical nature."

"You're right, Hank," Scott conceded.

"Ever the voice of reason," Jean added.

"Good, at least on this matter we can all concur." He used a towel to gently wipe away the remaining transmission gel from Jean's abdomen before busying himself sorting through the pile of photos that were printed.

The motion triggered the memory of the ultrasound she had received by Sinister a few days previously. Lord only knew what would have happened if she had gone through with the amniocentesis. At the very least, he would now have a genetic sample of her unborn child. But who knows what the madman may have injected into her womb; she did not consider various forms of genetic engineering above him. She shivered at the thought.

Picking up on her distress, Scott touched her shoulder, even as he gave her hand another reassuring squeeze.

His gesture generated a second memory-this time of the kindness she had received while being held prisoner.

"You're thinking about Isabella?" Scott asked her.

Sadly, Jean nodded.

"Oh, yes, Scott, I meant to ask you how that search concluded," Hank said. "Someone went back to the clinic to look for this ersatz nurse, Isabella?"

"Logan and Nathan went back to investigate. There was no sign of anyone-no doctors, no nurses, no patients. The place was completely cleared out."

"What about all of the laboratory equipment? The multitude of clones of which Jean spoke?"

Scott sadly shook his head. "Nada."

Jean sighed. "I hope that Isabella managed to get away. I only wish I had had the opportunity to scan her mind. Then I could search for her using Cerebro."

"It's just as well," Scott said. When she looked at him crossly, he quickly explained himself. "Don't get me wrong, Jean-I'll be forever grateful to Isabella for caring for you and helping you escape. I just meant that I think it's best that you focus on other things right now. That you think of yourself first for a change."

"I second that motion," Hank piped in.

"Any special orders?" Scott asked as Hank rose.

"Get plenty of rest, drink lots of fluids, eat healthy, take your vitamins, and get some low-impact exercise."

"And for Jean?"

Hank shook his head. "You've been hanging out with Bobby too much, Fearless. I'll leave your copies of the photos on top of the monitor. Jeanie, I shall let you dress. Let me know if you have any other questions." Grabbing her medical record, he took his leave.

"Thanks, Hank." Jean sat up as Scott retrieved her clothing from a nearby chair. "Feel better?" she asked as she began to remove the hospital gown.

"Much. You?" Scott asked as he wandered over to the pile of pictures.

"I'm very relieved," she said, pulling on her sweater. "So, did I miss much else while I was passed out yesterday?" When there came no reply, she glanced over toward her husband. He was flipping through the photos, a goofy grin on his face. "Scott?" Still, no reply. Scott?

"Hmm? I'm sorry, Jean, did you say something?"

She shook her head in exaggerated exacerbation. "I was just asking what's been happening since we got back," she explained as she shimmied into her jeans. She had to hold her breath to close the zipper.

"Time to go shopping?" he asked with a teasing smile as he walked over to her.

"Unfortunately," Jean replied, looking down at her middle. "Think anyone will notice if I don't fasten this button?"

"Nah. Your sweater will hide it," Scott assured her, tugging it down over her hips before drawing her close for a kiss.

"What was that for?" she asked several breathless moments later.

"Just because."

"Because what?"

"Because I love you," he said simply.

She smiled. "I love you, too."

"Now, c'mon," he said, handing Jean her boots. "The sooner you finish getting dressed, the sooner we can show off these photos."

"So I'm just going to have a nurse pull some blood to run those tests we were talking about, and as soon as we get the results, we'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with, okay, Mr. Johnson?" Dr. Foxx said to her elderly patient as she scribbled something in his chart.

The gray-haired man nodded wanly at her.

"Any questions?"

"My son. . . ?"

"I've already had a nurse call him. He's on his way in. We'll have him come see you once he arrives."

That knowledge seemed to reassure him.

"All right, Mr. Johnson, I'll be back to check on you in a bit, then," she said with an encouraging smile.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome." As she emerged from the curtain, she handed the tinback to an approaching nurse.

"What'cha need, Dr. Foxx?"

"CBC, chem screen, UA and culture. I'm going to want to monitor his 'lytes. . . ."

"No prob."

"And notify me when his son arrives."

"You got it. Anything else?"

"That's it for now. Thanks, Paula. I'm going to go look at the rads for the Morris girl."

"She hasn't been brought down to Radiology yet."

"Great." She ran a hand over her hair in exacerbation. "It'd be quicker if I took the films my damned self!"

"Go have Debbie call down for you. It'll make you feel better."

"What'll make me feel better is to go throttle someone in Radiology."

"Trust me." With a wink and a devilish grin, Paula disappeared behind the curtain. "Hi there, Mr. Johnson. My name is Paula. . . ."

Perplexed at the nurse's comment, Dr. Foxx made her way across the exam area and over to the nurse's station, ready to make heads roll. As she approached, she noted one nurse duck her head to whisper to another, both women suppressing smiles.

"Could someone please get on the phone to Radiology and see what the hell is the back-up?" she grated, picking up a chart. "I've got a girl with a fractured foot sitting here for two hours already."

"Sure thing, Dr. Foxx," the receptionist, Debbie, said as she reached for the receiver. She gazed at a nurse and nodded ever-so-slightly as she dialed the appropriate extension.

"Dr. Foxx, something came for you while you were in with Curtain Four," the nurse told her.

"Hmm?" She looked up from the file she was perusing. "Whose lab results are in, Kristi?"

"No, I mean something was delivered for you," the petite woman replied. "Come see."

Brow furrowed, Dr. Foxx followed Kristi over to the far end of the nurse's station. On the counter, next to a stack of clipboards and a fax machine, stood a bouquet of flowers. But not just any flowers. A dozen yellow roses were arranged amidst a generous spattering of baby's breath in an elegant crystal vase.

Dr. Foxx stopped a foot from the counter, staring at the bouquet in bewilderment.

"Aren't they gorgeous?" the nurse asked. "And they smell heavenly," she added, poking her nose into one of the golden blooms.

Dr. Foxx regarded the raven-haired nurse for several moments. "These are for me? Seriously?"

"Here, look at the card," Kristi insisted, carefully turning the vase to reveal a small cream envelope pinned amongst the arrangement.

Scowling, she walked over to the counter, glancing at the envelope. Sure enough, written in blue script, were the words 'Dr. Ashley Foxx'. Eyes widening, she shook her head. "Th-there must be some mistake," she whispered. "Who on earth would send me flowers?"

"That's what everyone's dying to know," Kristi giggled. "Open the card and find out."

"Hey Kristi, you don't happen to have the most recent labs from a Martin Murphy, do you?" came a woman's voice from the other side of the counter.

"Let me check for you, Dr. Philips," the nurse replied. "I'll be right back."

As Kristi left, the surgeon whistled loudly. "That's some spread," she said, smiling admiringly at the flowers. "I didn't realize you were seeing someone, Ashley."

Dr. Foxx flushed. "I'm not," she hastily muttered.

"Well, then, that's one grateful patient," Dr. Philips remarked with a grin. "Sure beats the bar of scented hand soap I got last week. Who's it from?"

"I-I don't know," Dr. Foxx replied.

"Geez, Ashley, you've got a hell of a lot of self-restraint. I'd've ripped that card open two seconds after I saw the flowers. Listen, I've got to go finish this consult. I'll stop by later, and you can tell me all about it."

"S-sure thing, Heidi."

Laughing, Dr. Philips left to finish her quest for blood results.

As soon as she was alone, Dr. Foxx reached for the envelope, surprised to see that her hand was shaking ever-so-slightly. She pulled the faux-pearl adorned straight pin from the note and turned the envelope over, unfastening the flap. Inside was a matching cream notecard with the words "Thank you" printed in gold embossed lettering. She unfolded the card, and began to read the note written inside:

_Doc,_

_Your job is to mend broken bones, to fix ailing bodies. But earlier this week, you went above and beyond the call of duty. You took the time to talk, to reassure, to comfort. For what reason you singled me out as the recipient of your kindness, I may never know. But I am nonetheless grateful for the compassion you showed me. The way you embraced the implausible, offering your support and most importantly your trust, means more than any words could ever express. I just want you to know that I will always count you among my friends._

_Bobby Drake_

P.S. There's going to be an improv performance at one of the best coffee houses in the city Friday night. I realize you may have to work, and that you may not even like jazz, but on the off chance you're in the mood for a caffeine fix, give me a call. 555-2653. No obligation.

Blinking, she re-read the note twice more before silently closing it, returning the card to the envelope, and slipping it into the pocket of her lab coat. Silently, she picked up the vase and carried the bouquet into the doctor's lounge, ignoring the stares and knowing smiles of the other hospital workers she passed. Finding the room thankfully empty, she placed the arrangement down on a small round table for safe-keeping. Then she bent to smell the roses, closing her eyes as the sweet aroma from the blossoms permeated her senses. A smile slowly curled her lips.

She started to head for the door, but instead walked to the small desk that sat against the far wall. Hand sliding into her pocket, her fingers closed around the small note card. Slowly, she approached the desk, eyes focused on the phone that sat on the back corner.

Pulling the card from her pocket, she stared down at it, considering.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the phone, but stopped abruptly, fingers hovering mere inches above the receiver. She held it there for several long seconds, her hand-like her thoughts-in limbo. Funny how she spent much of her days making split-second decisions, how she prided herself on her ability to think under pressure, and to trust her judgment. Now, though, one simple choice had her uncharacteristically irresolute.

With a resolved sigh, she began to move her hand. . . .

"Dr. Foxx-there's a multi-victim MVA about to pull up!" Kristi called, poking her head into the lounge.

"On my way," she replied, turning to sprint after the nurse. As she reached into her pocket to pull on a pair of latex gloves, she placed the small envelope back inside, her mind focusing on the more urgent task at hand.

**End Epilogue**

**Crash and Burn **

**Darren Haynes and Daniel Jones--Savage Garden**

_When you feel all alone _

_And the world has turned its back on you _

_Give me a moment please to tame your wild wild heart _

_I know you feel like the walls are closing in on you _

_It's hard to find relief and people can be so cold _

_When darkness is upon your door and you feel like you can't take anymore_

_Let me be the one you call_

_If you jump I'll break your fall _

_Lift you up and fly away with you into the night _

_If you need to fall apart I can mend a broken heart _

_If you need to crash then crash and burn _

_You're not alone_

_When you feel all alone _

_And a loyal friend is hard to find _

_You're caught in a one way street _

_With the monsters in your head _

_When hopes and dreams are far away and _

_You feel like you can't face the day_

_Let me be the one you call _

_If you jump I'll break your fall _

_Lift you up and fly away with you into the night _

_If you need to fall apart I can mend a broken heart _

_If you need to crash then crash and burn _

_You're not alone_

_Because there has always been heartache and pain _

_and when it's over you'll breathe again _

_You'll breathe again_

_When you feel all alone _

_And the world has turned its back on you _

_Give me a moment please _

_To tame your wild wild heart_

_Let me be the one you call _

_If you jump I'll break your fall _

_Lift you up and fly away with you into the night _

_If you need to fall apart I can mend a broken heart _

_If you need to crash then crash and burn _

_You're not alone_

03/24/02 - 05/21/03


End file.
